A Corpse at St Andrew's Chapel (29 page)

“Ask ’im,” the priest wheezed.

“I will. Just thought you might want to provide your version of this tale before I hear from Thomas. A few days in the castle dungeon before I question him will surely loosen his tongue.”

“You’d believe a cotter before a man in holy orders?”

“Depends upon the cotter and the parson. The more I learn of you and Thomas the less likely I am to believe anything either of you say. But I suppose I shall be able to ferret out something like the truth of it.”

“And If I choose to say nothing?”

“Well,” I thought on this for a moment, “you’ve already said much…back in the chapel yard. Lord Gilbert will return from Pembroke soon. Perhaps he will get some truth from you if I fail.”

“I am the bishop’s man. I do not fear Lord Gilbert.”

“You think the Bishop of Exeter will defend you and cross Lord Gilbert? Lord Gilbert has powers to make life unpleasant even for a bishop. What influence have you?”

This was a new and unwelcome thought for the priest. He walked on silently. I thought the contemplation would do him good.

There were few townsmen about so early, but those who were at their business glanced at the priest and me with curiosity in their eyes. A townsman might be out of his bed and at his work before the Angelus Bell, but it was unlikely Lord Gilbert’s bailiff and the priest of St Andrew’s Chapel would be. Unless some unusual circumstance had occurred. The commons are not so doltish as churchmen and gentlemen may believe. Those who watched as Kellet and I strode down the Broad Street to Church Street knew something was amiss.

Thomas de Bowlegh’s cook was at his work. A column of smoke rose from the vicarage chimney into the still air of dawn. So Kellet and I did not wait long after I rapped upon the vicarage door before the vicar’s yawning servant drew it open.

We were invited to warm ourselves before the fire while the servant went to wake his master. He hesitated when I asked him to do this. Some men awaken bright for the new day. Others are cranks until the sun is high and they have broken their fast. Thomas de Bowlegh is among the latter, as the servant well knew, and Kellet and I were about to learn.

I heard the vicar’s feet fall heavily upon the steps leading down from his room. A warning that an unhappy man was about to appear. Amazing how a man’s feet can echo his disposition. I have ever since that day sought to avoid discourse with Thomas de Bowlegh until after the third hour.

The fire and east window combined to provide enough light that the vicar could identify his interlopers. He took a step into the room, glared first at John Kellet, then at me, and said, “Well?”

“No,” I replied. “I am not well. I took two blows across my skull this night, and was dumped in a bed of nettles. In your service.” I can be as churlish as any other. Especially with two tender lumps above my ear and a foul headache.

The vicar’s eyes, drawn near closed in a frown, opened wide at my words. Two benches sat either side of the blaze. I shoved Kellet toward one and motioned the vicar toward the other.

“Sit,” I commanded, “and I will tell you who murdered Alan the beadle and Henry atte Bridge.”

“The same man slew both?” de Bowlegh gasped.

“Nay. But the deaths are tied. This priest,” I nodded toward Kellet, “was in league to do evil with Henry atte Bridge. When he saw that I lived and might identify Henry as my attacker on the road to Witney, he put an arrow into Henry’s back to silence him.”

“Arrow?” the vicar frowned. “I thought ’twas a dagger struck down the fellow. You said as much.”

“’Twas my error. I found an arrowhead embedded in Henry’s back when I examined him more closely. ’Twas this priest who drew the bow.”

“Not so,” Kellet exploded. “He cannot prove so.”

This charge and the priest’s denial so startled de Bowlegh that he did not think to ask when the inspection took place which brought forth an arrowhead from Henry atte Bridge’s hairy back. The question seemed not to occur to him, for he never asked it of me. So I never told him. ’Tis not only sleeping dogs that are best left to lie.

“Henry atte Bridge and this parson wished me dead, for they feared what I might discover about the death of Alan the beadle.”

Thomas de Bowlegh wore yet a frown, but not because of an early departure from his bed, I think. He was puzzled.

“Alan followed Henry one night as the cotter made his way from the town to St Andrew’s Chapel. Perhaps Alan had followed him in this journey before. But on this night Henry lay in wait, smashed Alan’s head with a rock from the hedgerow, then tore the beadle’s neck with a nail-studded block so we who found Alan might think his death the work of a wolf. But Henry was greedy. He took the shoes from Alan’s corpse and ’twas the shoes which betrayed his deed to me.”

“And this is why he fell upon you on the road?”

“Aye.”

“But what has Father John to do with this?” de Bowlegh asked, nodding toward the priest.

“He and Henry were in league. I do not yet know why, nor how, but poaching had to do with it. Henry took venison to this priest. It must have been payment, but for what I do not yet know.”

“’Twas a gift,” Kellet muttered. “I thought ’twas…a goat…or a leg of mutton Henry brought.”

“And why would he do so?” de Bowlegh asked, disbelieving.

“We was friends…of old.”

“And he could not give this gift in the day, but must do so at night, and kill a man to keep the gift secret?” the vicar scoffed.

“Now Henry’s brother is in the same business,” I continued. I picked up the sack and dumped its contents before de Bowlegh.

“Venison,” he growled through pursed lips, “or I miss my guess. Surely no goat.”

John Kellet, guilty or not, would be taken from my hands and tried before a church court. Thomas Becket had died to maintain that immunity. Right or wrong, I was not sorry to be rid of the fellow.

“I leave the priest to you. John Prudhomme has taken Thomas atte Bridge to the castle. I intend to let him sit in the dungeon for a day or two. He will be more likely to give the truth after a taste of life in a cell. I will call if I learn of the bargain between him and this…priest.”

De Bowlegh and Kellet sat glaring at each other. I thought I knew which glare would prove most effective.

I was eager to know more of this affair which I had uncovered, but I was also thirsty, tired, hungry, and suffering a headache. I went straight to the castle kitchen for a loaf hot from the oven, not even pausing on the bridge over Shill Brook. I took a tankard of ale to my chamber and added a handful of ground willow bark and lettuce to the ale. This was effective, for I was asleep as soon as I went to my bed.

I left instructions to be awakened for dinner. I have had enough of cold meat and bread taken in my chamber. This must have caused some puzzlement, for none of the castle grooms or valets knew I had been up awake all night. They would know the truth of it soon enough.

The trestle tables and benches awakened me as they were dragged across the great hall floor. So when Uctred rapped upon my door I was already alert. But when I stood from my bed I nearly fell back to it again. I was so dizzy I could not stand, but sought my bench and collapsed upon it. Perhaps it was the blows I had taken, or the willow bark and lettuce, which caused my unsteady legs. I was required to sit for a moment until my head cleared and I was able to stand again. Uctred continued thumping against the door, his exasperation at receiving no reply causing him to beat the oaken planks more and more vigorously until I finally found wit to call out that I would soon appear.

I stood cautiously, ready to resume my seat if need be. But my head did not whirl this time. I was nevertheless careful as I opened my door and made my way to my place at the table.

The meal was hot and tasty, and I was hungry, so I remember it well. Even a whack across the head will not harm my appetite for long. The first remove was a pike and roasted capons, and a pottage of peas and bacon. For the second remove there was a game pie of rabbit with onions and apples, and mushroom tarts. For the subtlety a pudding with Spanish almonds, dates, raisins and currants.

I rose, sated, from the table and ordered that a trencher be taken to Thomas atte Bridge in his cell. An old, stale crust, stained with the grease of a capon, so Thomas would know, there in his cell, what others consumed for their dinner. Of course, most cotters by this time of year lived on pottage and perhaps an egg. Meat and any other good thing from last year’s slaughter and harvest was long since consumed, and the new harvest was a month and more away. If a villein or poor tenant could fill his belly with peas and barley pottage by St Swithin’s Day he would think himself fortunate. But there had been roasted meat in the Weald only a fortnight before. Perhaps a part of the haunch of venison in Thomas’ sack was yet in his hut, where, were he free, he might now be licking grease from his fingers rather than chewing a stale crust and considering what might have been.

I did not sleep well that night. Perhaps the long nap before dinner was responsible. Or perhaps the tender lumps on my head were the cause. They reminded me of their presence each time I turned upon my pillow. I never knew goose feathers could be so firm.

T
he Bampton Castle dungeon is beneath the buttery. If wine is spilled on the planks above, the drippings might sweeten the place. But the west wall of the cell is the east wall of the castle cesspit. The stones of that foundation passed more of their contents, I think, than did the oaken boards of the buttery floor above. The stench was awful. Good. A man might be so eager to leave the place he might even tell the truth if it meant his release.

The door to the dungeon had no latch or lock. It was fixed on one side to the stones with three iron hinges pinned to the wall. To make the door secure it was held in place by two oaken beams which dropped into iron fixtures on either side of the door. These were also pinned to the stones. A small opening little larger than my fist permitted conversation through the door, and the passage of food and water.

Uctred accompanied me down the stone steps behind the kitchen. We each held a cresset, for although the new day dawned bright and golden, no windows or embrasures lit either the cell or the steps and passage leading to it. The stone walls of this corridor were cold and damp. Thomas, I decided, should be thankful he’d taken residence in this place in summer, rather than winter.

Thomas heard us approach. His face appeared at the opening in the door, expecting a crust for his breakfast, I think. He had a crust the day before, and would receive another after this day’s dinner. With such he must be content. I had little sympathy for a man who thought he had slain me and would have buried me, unknown and ungrieved, in unconsecrated ground outside St Andrew’s Chapel churchyard wall.

Uctred lifted the timbers which secured the door and swung it open on protesting hinges. Hinges always seem to squeal in protest when required to perform their appointed work. Like some men. Thomas atte Bridge glowered at me through the open door. I glowered back. I had been Lord Gilbert’s bailiff for nearly two years. In that time I had learned the potency of a practiced scowl. I stepped through the open door and was gratified to see atte Bridge retreat and cast his eyes to the hard-packed earth at his feet. The opening skirmish in this battle was won.

“John Kellet,” I began, “is in the hands of the vicars of St Beornwald’s Church. No doubt the bishop’s court will see to this business and I will be called to testify. Will you have me learn of your crimes from the priest, or will you tell me?”

Thomas stood silent before me, clenching and releasing his fists, considering his options, which were few. It must be a family inheritance, for Henry clenched his fists when pressed in much the same way.

“Ain’t no poacher,” he finally muttered.

“The venison in the sack you would have given to John Kellet was surely Lord Gilbert’s deer. I think I followed you to Alvescot three weeks past, where you gave me a blow from behind the churchyard wall. You were seeing to your snares, I think.”

“Never set no snares,” Thomas replied. I watched the muscles of his jaw twitch as he spoke.

“You used bow and arrows? In the dark?” I found this dubious. The man I followed to Alvescot carried no bow.

“Never kilt none o’ Lord Gilbert’s deer, w’snare or arrows.”

“Ah…but you do not deny whacking me across the head. And you would have made of me a corpse at St Andrew’s Chapel. You had a haunch of venison there, and a sack. The same sack as at Alvescot, I’d guess. You wished me dead to hide something, but not poaching?” I scoffed.

Thomas had been inspecting his feet during this conversation. But now he looked up, first at me, then to the door, where Uctred stood frowning, then to the walls of his cell, and then back to me. He would have glowered again, I think, but to do so requires some confidence and his was melting away like an April snowfall. He was trapped, and he knew it.

“You and your brother took meat to John Kellet. And late at night, so none would know. Fair dealings may be done in the day. Only mischief need be done in the dark.”

The logic of this remark seemed to strike home. Thomas looked down and studied the ground at his feet again.

“You sought to pay Kellet for some service, I think. A debt. To save his own skin he’ll tell the bishop’s men a tale to benefit him, not you. He will surely lay blame at your feet where he can. You will already be charged with poaching and venturing murder. What new indictment will come when John Kellet absolves himself of guilt?”

Atte Bridge did not respond for a moment. He was thinking. I assume. Thinking was an exercise Thomas atte Bridge tended to avoid. Doing so now was surely a new experience. Anything done for the first time will likely be done slowly. I gave him time to ponder his options. When he finally spoke several riddles were explained.

“’Twas Walter killed the deer. Not me.”

“Walter?” I scratched my head, trying to match the name with a face. I did, to my vexation.

“The verderer’s son?”

“Aye.”

“Did Gerard know of this?”

“Nay…don’t think so. I was always t’come late for my share.”

“Your share? Why should Walter bestow his ill-got venison on you?”

Thomas stared again at the walls of his cell for a moment, wondering, I think, should he say more. I thought I could guess the answer, but better it come from Thomas than from me.

“Blackmailed ’im,” he finally muttered.

“You learned of his poaching Lord Gilbert’s deer? He who was to protect the forest against such a thing? How? Did you hear rumor and follow him about?”

More silence followed, and another question came to me: “And what had the curate to do with this that you would give him a portion of venison?”

“Confession,” he whispered.

“Confession? You confessed this sin to Kellet and he demanded a share as penance?” I was incredulous.

“Nay,” Thomas spat. “Might be as ’ow that’s what ’e’ll say, but ’twas ’is plan from t’first.”

“Then what had confession to do with this?”

“Walter confessed to Kellet,” Thomas admitted. “Walter didn’t want to confess to the priest at Alvescot. Kellet an’ Henry was old friends. The priest told me brother to blackmail Walter for some of the meat, an’ they’d share. Henry went to Walter an’ told ’im ’e knew of ’is poachin’ Lord Gilbert’s deer. Didn’t tell ’im ’ow, ’course. Told ’im ’e’d seen ’im in the forest, huntin’. Told Walter ’e’d keep quiet ’bout it did Walter give ’im some of what ’e took.”

“And some of Henry’s portion went to Kellet?”

“Aye.”

I took a moment to digest this. Kellet had violated his vows, breaking the seal of the confessional. Was blackmail a worse crime than this?

“When Henry died…what then?”

“Kellet come t’me. Told me what ’e an’ Henry was about. I wondered ’ow Henry got so prosperous, like,” Thomas muttered.

“He had iron hinges for his door, and an iron spade,” I commented.

“Aye,” Thomas mumbled.

“Henry blackmailed Edmund also?”

“Aye.”

I knew what Edmund must have confessed to Kellet. No wonder then that the smith thought his dalliance with the baker’s wife too costly. He had been paying a high price for Henry’s silence.

“Have you sought goods of the smith?”

“Aye,” he grimaced. “Threw me out, ’e did.”

“His sin is known. He has no need to pay to keep it from me or any other. I saw Emma in dispute with Andrew Miller. Next day I saw her leave the mill with a sack. Did Henry blackmail the miller, also?”

“Aye. Andrew confessed givin’ short weight.”

Why a miller would think himself in danger should this news be about I do not know. All know millers do such a thing. Indeed, they consider such taking a part of their fee. Although Lord Gilbert is perhaps more strict about the conduct of his demesne tenants than most nobles. Andrew must have thought an occasional gift to Henry atte Bridge a small price to pay to keep the man silent.

While I thought on these things Thomas looked up and spoke. “Did John Kellet slay me brother?”

“He did.”

“All ’cause o’ them shoes?”

“Aye. Greed will destroy a man…eventually. Had Alan yet worn shoes when we found him in the hedgerow I might have been satisfied that a wolf caused the beadle’s death. When Henry and John feared that I would seek out Henry and demand of him what he knew of Alan’s death, they determined to waylay me along the north road. But your brother failed to kill me, so John Kellet killed him, rather than me, to silence him. So I believe.”

“That fat priest should die,” Thomas spat.

“For killing a man who would have killed me? As you would have. Two brothers much alike.”

“But we didn’t.”

“Not for lack of effort or desire.”

“What will t’ bishop do with ’im?”

“The church executes no one. And I cannot prove he murdered your brother…nor can any man, I think.”

“’E’ll go free, then?”

“Not after what you’ve told me. The bishop’s court will demand penance, and when he completes that, he’ll be made a servant at some monastery, I’d guess.”

Thomas turned from me to face the wall. I heard him mutter imprecations against the church for allowing a murderer to escape hanging. Of course, he had escaped hanging only because he had not laid his cudgel a third time across my yet tender head. Or perhaps not. He might have got away with it. And surely Henry deserved hanging. But Thomas thought only of himself and the injuries done to him. He did not consider the wounds he gave others. But for the Spirit of God in some we are all much the same.

I turned to leave the cell. I had the knowledge I had come for. Uctred pulled the door closed behind me. As it slammed shut Thomas cried out.

“Wait…what will you do with me?”

“A jury of presentment will consider your crimes. You will be tried at hallmote, I think.”

“You will leave me here ’til Michaelmas?” he shouted through the opening in the door.

“’Twas your choice to deal with a poacher and lay blows across my head. And you will have a companion soon enough.”

Uctred dropped the beams through the iron fittings and across the door. A shadowed nose and eye pressed against the hole as we turned and climbed the steps to sunlight and fresh air.

I sent the porter’s assistant to Alvescot with a message for Gerard that I wished to see him and his sons immediately. No one wishes to receive such a notice from a lord’s bailiff. Gerard, whose conscience, so far as I knew, was unmarred, would be concerned. Walter would worry with each step which brought him to Bampton Castle. If he had a conscience. A little worry can be a good thing. Although in Walter’s case worry before he poached Lord Gilbert’s deer would have served better than worry after.

Gerard and his sons arrived just before dinner. I decided to let them wait while I took my meal, so directed the porter’s assistant to assign them to an anteroom off the gatehouse until I should call for them. Another hour or so of apprehension would do Walter no harm.

Dinner this day was the usual three removes, and more elaborate than many. The cook, I think, was practicing for Lord Gilbert’s return to Bampton now little more than a fortnight away.

For the first remove there was Vyaund cyprys, boiled duck, and currant tarts. The second remove featured a roasted kid, stuffed partridge, and a custard. Grooms, of course, received of the second course only the custard. Since the Sumptuary Laws of 1363 they are permitted but one meal of meat or fish each day.

For the third remove there was fried pigeon and coney and for the subtlety a Lombardy custard. My belly was well filled and I was content with the world. Perhaps my interrogation of Walter Forester would have been sharper and more effective had I been hungry.

I found Richard and Walter yawning and scratching themselves on a bench in the gatehouse anteroom. Vermin, no doubt. Their father snored peacefully, propped against the opposite wall of the small room, on the other bench.

The verderer’s sons leaped to their feet as I entered. Their bench banged off the wall behind them and awakened Gerard. The old man snorted, blinked, and stood also when his rheumy eyes fixed on my shadow in the doorway.

I stared silently from Gerard to his sons for several heartbeats. I wished them to know from the outset that their presence at the castle was about no ordinary business. I would allow them time to imagine what business it might be.

Gerard was puzzled. But his face betrayed no guilt. I was relieved. Had he seemed defensive or addressed me quickly on some trivial matter I would have suspected otherwise.

“You summoned us, an’ ’ere we are,” the old forester said. He was tottery from his nap, and swayed on his feet as he spoke. “Somethin’ amiss w’ the timbers?”

That explained the verderer’s brow, which was beginning to fold into worry lines.

“Nay. They serve well. Lord Gilbert’s new stables are nearly ready for his return. ’Tis another matter we must speak of.”

But I did not speak of this other matter immediately. I waited, looking from father to sons. ’Twas Walter who looked away first. When he did so I felt ready to broach the matter at hand.

“Two days past a man of the Weald was found with a joint of venison in his sack.”

“A poacher!” Gerard cried. “In my…I mean, Lord Gilbert’s forest?”

“Aye. So ’twould seem.”

“Who is the fellow?” Richard asked.

“He is called Thomas atte Bridge…but he claims he is not a poacher.”

“How then did ’e come by venison?” Gerard fumed. Walter remained silent, looking from his father to me and back again.

“Blackmail. Claims he learned of the poacher’s work and threatened to expose the man did he not share the spoil.”

“Is this poacher known?” Gerard seethed.

“Aye, to me…and to you.”

“Nay,” the old man protested.

“Oh, he is not known to you as a poacher, but you do know of him.”

“Who is’t?” Richard demanded.

I was not required to answer. Walter bolted past me through the door and disappeared into the gatehouse. Gerard and Richard were too stunned to do anything but blink wide-eyed at me and each other, but I recovered my wits and shouted through the door for Wilfred to stop the fleeing Walter.

I was too late. I flung myself to the door but Richard arrived there first. Wilfred stood agape as we scrambled from the anteroom. I ran under the portcullis just in time to see Walter dodging through the castle forecourt and those who had business there.