A Corpse at St Andrew's Chapel (27 page)

“Aye, well, there is much I do not see and therefore must hope for.”

“Because there is evidence not yet seen does not mean you will never see it. As the apostle wrote, ‘now we see through a glass darkly, but then, face to face.’”

“The glass is surely dark. That much is true.”

“Be of good cheer, Hugh. You are too solemn. You think too much of failure. Look rather at your success. All men fail on occasion. ’Tis our nature. Only the Lord Christ was perfect in all things. And consider that what seems failure this day may become success tomorrow or next day. You were much perplexed about the bones found in the castle cesspit, were you not?”

“Aye.”

“But time and wit found the answer.”

“And perhaps the grace of God, who looked on my feeble effort and chose to lead me through the maze.”

“He does that, when we ask. Even, betimes, when we do not think to ask.”

The scholar’s words brought to mind the times I sought guidance. I nodded agreement. It is difficult to disagree with Master John.

“So before you are off to Bampton let us beseech God to grant you wisdom and success in this business.”

Perhaps I expected a scholar’s prayer to be filled with flowery language and erudite references. Master John spoke as if a third man sat with us in his chamber. A friend. A friend with authority, to be sure, but a beloved companion, rather than a great lord at whose feet we must tremble.

Wyclif’s prayer requested two things: that God would grant me wisdom to find truth, and courage to do truth. What more does any man need? A man may want much more than these. I want more. But my needs and my wants, Master John saw, were different matters.

I breathed “Amen” along with Master John when he finished his petition. And silently added a request for one of my wants: a good wife. I admit it; this request accompanied an image in my mind’s eye of Kate Caxton. A year before the image would have been Lady Joan Talbot. I was startled to consider that Lady Joan had not entered my thoughts for many weeks. Since near the time I met Kate.

How many other young men, I wonder, have breathed a similar prayer with the stationer’s daughter in mind? They cannot all be answered. Well, yes, they will be; but the answer for most will be “No.” Will my plea be among those? It surely was when I made similar appeal to God regarding Lady Joan.

A want? No, a need. God himself decreed that it is not good for a man to live alone and so made a helpmeet for him. I must adjust my thinking and my prayers and request our Lord that he provide for my need, not merely for my desire.

B
ruce neighed and stamped his great hooves when I approached his stall behind the Stag and Hounds. At home in Bampton the old horse was put out to grass in the west meadow most days. No doubt he found his stay in Oxford boring; the day spent staring at stable walls of wattle and daub.

Bruce’s iron-clad hooves echoed loudly as we clattered across the Oxpens Road Bridge. In the water meadow to the west of the river teams of men moved across the field, scythes swinging rhythmically as they worked at hay-making. Behind the men women and older children followed, raking and turning the new-cut hay so it would dry evenly. This was a good year for hay-making. There would be fodder for beasts next winter, so long as the rains did not rot the hay on the ground before it could be dried and stacked.

This scene was repeated at Aston. There the meadows were cut and the scythe work near done for the day when Bruce ambled past. Villeins were stacking hay on their scythes to carry off for their own animals. A curious custom, unknown in Lancashire, from whence I come. Here in the south of England a man may carry off so much of the lord’s hay as he may stack on his scythe when the day’s work is done. But if the scythe or hay touch the ground the hay be forfeit. I watched Lord Doilly’s reeve as he watched to see no hay grazed the ground. Some men staggered from the meadow with truly astonishing mounds of hay heaped upon their scythes.

As I completed my journey I shifted in the saddle so as to bring a different portion of my rump in contact with the hard leather. The movement brought the point of the dagger in contact with my leg. ’Twas too dark when Master John gave it to me to see it well, and I’d not taken time to examine it in the morning. I did so as Bruce shuffled the last short distance from Aston to Bampton.

The blade was well kept and sharp, and near as long as my forearm from elbow to wrist. No jewels ornamented the hilt. This was not a rich gentleman’s weapon. But a coil of bronze wire circled the haft. This was decorative more than useful. The weapon was perhaps the property of some merchant’s son. It suited my station and need. I slid it back under my belt, came near to pricking my thigh, and resolved to see the castle harness-maker about a sheath for the weapon.

The spire of the Church of St Beornwald is visible even before one reaches Aston. I enjoy my travels, especially when a conversation with Master John Wyclif – or Kate Caxton – is the purpose. But each time I approach Bampton and see that stolid spire I am reminded of what a pleasant place it is.

Ah, you say, but what of murderers and poachers and those who attack a man in the night? I suppose most towns have their miscreants. Else the king would need no sheriffs and lords no bailiffs. Bampton has its share of good men, as well. Hubert Shillside, John Prudhomme, John Holcutt, and Lord Gilbert himself. And good women, too: Matilda, Alan’s widow, the child Alice, and until she became the Lady de Burgh, Lady Joan, who once mended the torn hem of my cloak, unhindered by her station – though her brother, I think, thought it unseemly.

I was – as had become my custom – late for dinner. Bruce covered the ground at a contented, ambling pace. So long as the old horse reached Bampton Castle in time for his own bucket of oats he was unconcerned regarding my growling belly.

I took from the kitchen a loaf and a cold capon and ate in my chamber while I considered paths I could follow which might lead to a resolution of my perplexity.

Two issues vexed me: who murdered Henry atte Bridge in the north wood, and who was poaching Lord Gilbert’s game?

I decided that day to attend the poaching business first. I thought ’twould be easiest to solve. What I did not know then was that the discovery of a poacher would lead to discovery of a murderer. Had I sought first a murderer I might never have found either a killer or a poacher.

Although I wore the dagger at my hip, the steel seemed rather to strengthen my backbone. I went to my chamber the evening of the next day resolved to spend the night behind the broken-down church wall at St Andrew’s Chapel. I would learn who approached the chapel so late at night, why he did so, and what was in his sack.

I was become accustomed to slipping over the castle wall at night. I worried that this familiarity might cause me to grow careless, so crept slowly through the shadows ’til I reached the place along the north wall I favored for the purpose.

I wore brown chauces and a dark grey cotehardie, to blend with the night. But I worried that face and hands might give me away when the moon rose, so applied a thick dusting of ashes from my fireplace to the offending skin. I was satisfied with the result.

I adjusted the dagger in my belt, secure in its new sheath, dropped the cudgel from the wall, then followed it down the rope. Once on the ground I sat at the base of the wall to watch and listen for movement. I neither saw nor heard anything but what is common to a summer evening. I paid special attention to the Ladywell. If any supplicant was there he was silent and took no notice of me.

No one, not even John Prudhomme, must know I was about this night. I avoided the town and circled to the north. This doubled the length of my journey, for the castle is on the west edge of Bampton, while St Andrew’s Chapel lies near half a mile to the east of the town.

I stole across the meadow between the castle and the Ladywell, then made my way along a hedgerow north of the millpond until I came to Shill Brook. I removed my boots, waded the stream, and stumbled across a fallow field to the west of the Church of St Beornwald. The night was so dark I nearly missed Laundell’s Lane, but this reassured me. If I could not see what I knew to be present, it seemed unlikely another would see what he did not expect – me.

Laundell’s Lane is the northern boundary of the town. I was somewhat concerned about crossing the north road, so held back in the shadow of a hedge until I was sure no man was about. Across the road there was but a path which led east to the fields and crossed the north end of Bushey Row. I followed this track until past Bushey Row, then stumbled diagonally across a field of strips planted to barley. At the southeast corner of this field lay the small copse which formed the western shelter to St Andrew’s Chapel.

This grove was thick with scrub and roots. I stumbled and tripped often as I groped through it. I could not be seen, but I was worried that, for all my caution, I might be heard. Dry twigs cracked under my feet and once I fell to my knees with feet entangled in ground ivy.

With much relief I saw the dilapidated churchyard wall appear from the shadows of the wood. The wall was not high. Crossing it was easy. There were, however, nettles growing up about the stones. I could not see them, but I surely felt them.

The parish about St Andrew’s Chapel is poor. Few who worship there can afford a stone to mark a family grave. So there were few grave markers to hide behind as I crept across the churchyard. Only an occasional wooden plank, not yet rotted to mold, stood upright in the soil.

I crossed the churchyard to the gate and sat beside it, my back to the wall. The moon began to glimmer through the trees to the south of the chapel, but I sat in darkness in the shadow of the wall. No man could enter without my knowledge, for he would be on a moonlit path, and the rusted iron hinges would squeal a warning.

I know not how long I sat, cold on the damp ground, awaiting one who never came. I believe I dozed once or twice, but no man tried the gate.

The moon was well to the west when I stood, stretched, and crept across the churchyard to the broken-down place in the wall where I had entered. My stinging palms reminded me to this time avoid the nettles.

I took the same route back to the castle I had followed four hours earlier on my way to the chapel. I was careful not to be seen; not because of any violation of curfew. I am Lord Gilbert’s bailiff. I may go where I wish, when I wish. Any who saw me might be curious, but I cared little for that. I did not want an observer because, was I seen, soon gossip would mean that many would know that Master Hugh was prowling about at night. Miscreants would then stay abed and await a more favorable time to work their evil. Or they would set out to ambush me while I thought to lie in wait for them. Neither of these was an outcome to be desired.

The next two nights – well, parts of the next two nights – I spent sitting against the crumbling south wall of St Andrew’s Chapel churchyard. Midway through the third night I heard a distant creaking sound and my heart did handsprings. I looked up from my seat on the grass and watched the gate, expecting to see it swing open. It did not move, but the creaking continued.

My senses were alert. I had one hand on my cudgel and the other on the dagger, ready to leap to my feet and challenge whoever moved about in the night. Then I saw the light. A single flame, from candle or cresset, moved from the chapel porch and the rotund shadow carrying it moved across the churchyard to the north. It was John Kellet.

I heard another distant squawk of wood against wood as a door was opened. The flame disappeared. I remembered. The chapel privy was along the north wall of the churchyard, just outside the consecrated ground. A few moments later another squeal and the reappearance of the flame indicated that Kellet had completed his nocturnal business. I watched the flickering flame float toward me across the churchyard, then disappear into the porch. A squeal and thud told me that the priest had reentered the chapel. I remained against the wall until I was sure the slovenly priest was snoring in his bed, then set out for the castle.

After three nights propped against a churchyard wall I was tempted to end the practice. The fourth night was Sunday eve. Surely a poacher, or whoever sought John Kellet of a midnight, would not do his work on our Lord’s Day? And it was raining. Not hard, more like a drizzle. But enough that I would soon be cold and soaked, even should I wear a cloak.

These were good reasons to stay in my bed this night, but I did not. I took rope, club and dagger, wrapped my cloak about me, and made my way again to the castle wall. I had given up brushing ashes on face and hands. ’Twas too difficult to remove the next day. I should have continued the practice.

For three nights I had walked the same path from castle to chapel. This night I varied my route, especially where I must cross the barley strips. The tenants whose fields these were might soon notice the flattened stalks and wonder how the crop came to be damaged.

I set out as soon as darkness enveloped the ground, but while the northwestern sky was yet pale beyond the trees. Even so, ’twas near midnight, I think, before I arrived at the chapel, this night being among the shortest of the year.

The grass along the wall was thick and wet with rain. I had sat three nights in the same place, near the gate. Perhaps, if John Kellet was observant, he might wonder why grass in his churchyard was beaten down at but one place along the wall. I crossed the churchyard path and sat against the wall at another place.

I had not long to sit in wet grass this night. Clouds began to break and stars appeared through fissures in the overcast. And then the waning moon appeared to the east. The grey stones of the chapel’s east wall seemed to reflect the moon and stars. I sat in shadow, there by the south wall, but my hands glowed whitely in reflected moonlight.

A snapping twig caused my heart to leap and hairs to stand erect upon the back of my neck. A moment later I heard footsteps on the road beyond the wall.

Moonlight, filtered through the trees to the south of the chapel, provided enough illumination that I saw a shadow fall across the gate. An instant later it swung open, quietly, on wet hinges. A dark figure, pale sack slung over a shoulder, passed the open gate and crept along the path to the chapel. The sack was white in the moonlight against the intruder’s dark cloak. A small, round lump swelled the bottom of the sack.

A stray cloud left behind by the departing rain obscured the moon as the figure reached the shadows of the porch. I heard a soft rapping on the door, and rose from my place along the wall to follow the sound.

I was between gate and porch when the moon reappeared from behind the passing cloud. Without the ashes to disguise me, my pale hands and face would surely have been visible, did any man look in my direction. To my sorrow, a man did.

I must stop prowling about of night-time and seek rogues in daylight. Darkness is not kind to those who seek justice, but is rather an ally of those who do wrong. I crept to the porch and pressed against it, then peered around the corner to see the entrance. The night was suddenly illuminated. A thousand stars flashed before my eyes and I fell, numbed, to my knees. Just as the swirling of comets and stars seemed to cease they began again, accompanied by a sharp pain across my skull. The world went black.

Once again fashion saved me. The liripipe coiled about my head softened the blows. I awoke I know not how long after the two strokes laid me in the grass beside the porch. I heard the soft muttering of voices but had not at first enough wit to understand what they said. My head throbbed, but the cold, wet ground soon brought me to my senses. I heard John Kellet speak.

“You’ve killed ’im.”

“Aye…let’s hope,” another said. I did not know the voice.

“You’ll hang.”

“Maybe.”

“What’ll you do with ’im?” Kellet asked.

“What’ll I do with ’im? You’re in this business, too.”

“Aye…but I’ll not hang.”

The other man spat. “You’ll lose yer livin’.”

“Maybe. But Father Ralph’ll not see me starve. Send me to some monastery t’be a lay brother; maybe make me go on pilgrimage. Always wanted t’see Canterbury, anyway,” he chuckled.

“I’ll drag ’im to the wood there beyond the wall, an’ get a spade. I can have ’im buried and leaves strawed across grave afore dawn.”

“Best be sure ’e’s dead,” Kellet replied.

I held my breath as a dark form bent over me. I thought to use the dagger against the man, but was unsure if my condition would permit a quick and accurate thrust. The man’s stinking breath near caused me to choke but I smothered the impulse. A hand went roughly to my neck to seek a pulse. My right hand lay by my side. I made ready to seize the dagger, but the fellow knew not where to seek an artery and so a moment later stood and spoke to the priest.