A Corpse at St Andrew's Chapel (5 page)

The dogs followed their noses up the brook all the way to Mill Street Bridge. They did not recover a scent. Tenants and villeins of Lord Gilbert Talbot and the Bishop of Exeter gazed in wonder as we clambered up the banks of the brook to the bridge. We made a rare spectacle. A dozen tired, mud-caked men, scratched and bloodied, and two weary old hounds. I was going to need another bath.

Hubert Shillside turned to me as we stood perplexed on the bridge. “I think,” he complained, “we must find better hounds. These are too old…they have missed the trail somewhere.”

This thought had occurred to me, but before I could reply the fewterer leaped to defend his charges.

“Nothin’ wrong wi’ the dogs. They’re not so young as t’run down a stag, maybe, but if there was a wolf left a trail they’d find it.”

“So you say, after Master Hugh heard the beast, and after the slain lamb, that there must be no wolf because your hounds cannot find it?” Shillside remarked sarcastically.

“’At’s what I’m sayin’. Master Hugh may’ve heard a wolf…no offense,” the fewterer looked at me and tugged his forelock. “But there be no trail or the dogs would’a found it.”

“But they did,” I said.

“Maybe,” the fewterer muttered.

“What is your meaning?” I challenged the old man.

“Oh, they found a scent. But t’were it a wolf they’d a been more eager to be off.”

“You are sure of this?”

“Nay. Can’t be certain. But I’ve worked Squire an’ Tawny since they was pups. I know ’em…an’ old or not, they didn’t act like they was on a trail of no wild beast.”

“Well, wolf or no, they are fatigued from the day’s labor, as are we all. Return them to their kennel and feed them well.”

“Will you be wantin’ ’em tomorrow?”

“No…unless there is better reason than we have found today.”

“What is to be done, then?” John Holcutt asked. “Must we hope the beast will travel on to curse some other place?”

“No. There may yet be a way to take this marauder. Take two or three others back to the meadow where the lamb lies. Build a screen downwind of the lamb. Tonight we will watch the meadow. Perhaps the wolf will return to its kill. You two,” I said to the archers, “will accompany the reeve and me tonight.”

O
ur company broke apart, its dispirited members making their weary way to their homes, or, in John Holcutt’s case, to the meadow. Tomorrow there would be an all-night vigil at the church, awaiting Easter dawn and the removal of the cross from the Easter Sepulcher. Tonight we four would keep a vigil as well.

The two archers were known to me. They were tenants on Lord Gilbert’s land, and I had seen each put a dozen arrows into the butt end of a barrel at 200 paces. Unless John Holcutt built the screen well away from where the lamb lay, if the wolf returned this night he would find an unwelcome surprise. This thought reminded me that the time had come to renew the archery competitions Lord Gilbert sponsored on Sunday afternoons. Such contests were suspended for the winter, but ’twas time to renew the practice.

I ate a light supper, then made my way to the meadow where the reeve and his assistants were completing the screen. John had built a framework of saplings and fallen branches from the nearby wood. Into this he wove tall grasses which had withstood the winter, and ivy and foliage from the hedgerow. The blind was but two paces from the thistles and nettles of the hedgerow. No beast would come upon it from behind. The dead lamb lay forty paces west. No wolf who fed there this night would need another meal.

I sent the reeve and one archer to the castle for supper, and kept the other archer with me. It was not yet dark, but I did not wish both archers absent should the wolf return before they finished their meal. I would send the unfed archer to his supper later.

I might have sent them both with John, and kept a bow and arrows with me as I watched alone. But this would have been a mistake had the animal chosen that moment to return to its kill. If wolves laugh, the beast would surely have done so as any arrows I loosed fell wide of their mark.

John and the first archer returned, well satisfied, and I sent the other to his meal as the twilight faded. Only the outline of bare tree limbs was visible to the west, where the setting sun still gave illumination to the sky. By the time the second archer stumbled up to the blind from his supper, the meadow lay tenebrous under a starlit sky.

If a wolf had chosen to return then silently to finish its meal, we should never have seen it. But two hours later a waning moon rose over the greenwood to the east and the pale white carcass of the lamb became visible. It was undisturbed. I was uncertain whether to be pleased or regretful that we had not been visited in the dark.

We were not visited in the moonlight, either. One by one my companions fell asleep. Their steady, measured breathing was the only sound to break the silence of the night. I let them sleep. Unless they snored, as one of the archers was wont to do. A gentle kick usually brought him awake and stopped his rumbling. And the reeve woke from his slumber several times to watch with me. He may as well have slept, for no beast visited the meadow that night.

I sent my companions to their homes as the sun rose over the fields and forest to the east toward Aston. I required of each man that he rejoin me at the screen at sunset. I was unwilling to accept failure. There would be many others awake all this night in the church, keeping the Easter Vigil. We four would honor God by doing our duty to Lord Gilbert and the tenants and villeins of his manor.

I returned to my chamber in the castle and lay on my bed for a fitful sleep until dinner. I dreamed of pale blue yarn and wooden-soled shoes and slavering wolves.

The castle cook revived my body and spirit. A good meal almost always performs that miracle. There was this day a leg of mutton, a coney pie and a ham, with mushroom tarts, a compost and cooked, spiced apples.

Thus refreshed, I went about manor business for the afternoon. It was my duty to inspect Lord Gilbert’s manor each day. This day there was plowing to oversee and the manuring of a field ready to be planted to barley. As dusk settled on the town, I joined the stream of residents walking to the Church of St Beornwald for the lighting of the great Paschal Candle and the commencement of the Easter Vigil. My soul was drawn to remain, but duty demanded otherwise. I stood at the rear of the nave while the great candle was lit, then quietly made my way out through the porch into the darkening churchyard.

The two archers were at the blind before me, and John Holcutt appeared soon after. This night was colder, and the waning moon appeared in the east an hour later. We shivered in the cold and waited for the moon to rise. When it did it was often obscured as a thickening body of clouds drifted from north to south across the town and meadow.

At dawn the clouds thickened more, and in the growing light I could see what only the touch on my face had told me ’til then: snowflakes drifted across the meadow. But the lamb lay as it had been for two days.

My knees were stiff with cold and it was with some discomfort that I stood and stretched. I remember my father, who rarely complained of anything, lamenting aching joints when winter came. Was I become my father already?

We four peered over the screen at the undisturbed lamb, stamping our feet to drive out the cold. This exercise was not successful.

Neither was the watch over the dead lamb, so I called it off. I told John and the archers that, unless the wolf gave more sign, we would no longer seek it, but hope that it had traveled to some far county.

I walked, stiffly at first, like an old man, back to the castle and my chamber. I wished to clean myself before Easter Mass, so asked for a bucket of hot water to be brought. I would not eat. It is my custom to fast before mass, as was once customary, but now seems an uncommon privation.

I had laid the blue yarn found in Alan’s scalp on my table. My eyes fell upon it as I awaited my bucket of hot water. I picked it up, sat on my bench, and twirled it mindlessly. I had contemplated that thread many times but was no nearer to its significance, if it had any, to the beadle’s death and his missing shoes.

While I toyed with the yarn I heard a soft rapping on my door. I bid the maker enter, and Alice atte Bridge pushed open the door. Her right shoulder sagged under the weight of a bucket of steaming water.

So it was that the girl saw me twisting the blue yarn about a finger. She stood watching, awaiting instructions.

“Any place will do, Alice,” I nodded at the bucket. She took me at my word and dropped her burden in the middle of my chamber, still watching the blue yarn. The girl turned slowly to leave, obviously curious about the yarn. I found myself eager to explain to her – to anyone – its importance. So I told her of finding Alan the beadle, which news she had surely heard already, and of the pale blue yarn found in his hair, and his missing shoes. I did not ask her if she knew of a garment of that shade. I should have. Alice seems incapable of falsehood. I might have been spared a brawl in a darkened road and a thump across my skull.

I dismissed her and went to scrubbing myself, attempting to wash away cobwebs of sleep as well as dirt, so as to prepare my soul and body for the celebration of our Lord’s resurrection. I was more successful with body than with spirit, for had I not been standing for the mass I should have fallen asleep during Thomas de Bowlegh’s homily. This message, I thought, was not one of his best. But perhaps his discourse lost its power at my ear rather than at his lips.

By tradition Lord Gilbert’s servants, tenants, and villeins would receive a feast this day at the castle. Most Lords fed only their servants an Easter dinner, but Lord Gilbert, though parsimonious on other occasions, was lavish when it came to sharing his board at Easter. Perhaps he is more charitable than most nobles. Or perhaps he likes to display his wealth.

Although Lord Gilbert was absent at Pembroke, he instructed me to continue the custom. The great hall at Bampton Castle is small, so I ordered tables set up in the castle yard for the villeins, while tenants would dine in the hall. The day was cool, but there was no more snow, so those who ate in the yard were not much discomfited.

Tenants and villeins who dined at Lord Gilbert’s table this day brought eggs, which was also customary. We who fed at the castle board would see our fill of custards and poached eggs for the next fortnight.

There was, as is traditional, no work done for the next week. I chafed to see such idleness, but I suppose ’tis well for men to have some relief from their labors. Especially since, when Hocktide was past, the work of summer would truly begin.

The week was cold, not lending itself to celebration. The clouds which appeared on Easter eve remained over Bampton ’til Thursday, bringing Scotland’s weather with them. Better both the Scots and their clime remain to the north.

On Hocktide Sunday I set up a table in the castle yard – the weather being much improved – and collected rents and fees due Lord Gilbert. Harvests had been good the previous two years, so there were few unable to pay. These, as Lord Gilbert instructed, were granted extra time, but their arrearages were carefully noted. In times past a tenant unable to pay his rent might be cast out and his land leased to another. But since the great death there were few workers and much unused land. A tenant dismissed could not be replaced. And tenants knew this. I was pleased that most paid without complaint. Lord Gilbert would surely have been unhappy to return to Bampton to discover that rents were uncollected. But he would have been equally unhappy should I dismiss a tenant who could not be replaced.

On the Monday and Tuesday after Hocktide Sunday the residents of Bampton indulged in a curious spectacle, unknown to me before I came to the town. On Monday the wives of Bampton whipped their husbands through the streets. On Tuesday husbands got revenge and whipped their screeching wives through the town. I suppose no harm was done. I saw few who took advantage of the custom to lay on strong blows. Certainly wives, whatever disagreements they might have with their husbands, did not thrash them, for they knew they would receive similar blows next day. And husbands who scourged their wives too strongly knew they would eat cold pottage ’til Whitsunday for their vigor.

It was St George’s Day, ten days after Easter, before life in Bampton resumed its normal routine. I called for hallmote to meet that day. Lord Gilbert’s tenants and villeins selected John Prudhomme to replace Alan. John held a half-yardland of Lord Gilbert, and seemed not to fear his new duties. As there had been no wolf’s howl heard for nearly a fortnight, why should he?

I awoke from my slumber next morning itching from bites I had received while at my rest. Hallmote had met in the great hall the previous day, and some tenant or villein had brought with him to the assembly some unwanted guests. As my chamber opened directly off the hall, and in the night I was the nearest warm body available, the pests sought me out.

In my chest there remained several bundles of fleabane I had gathered the previous summer. I took a bundle and broke the dried stems, leaves and faded flowers to small bits. These I placed in an earthen bowl, along with a coal from my faded fire. Then I closed the door and retreated to the hall.

Shortly after I was gratified to see a wisp of smoke curl from under my door. Satisfied that the fleabane was smoldering well, I was about to seek the kitchen for a loaf when Alice atte Bridge appeared at the buttery and saw my smoking door.

“Oh, sir!” she yelped, and turned to run for aid.

With some difficulty I arrested her flight. She returned to the hall, gazing suspiciously at the fumes now pouring copiously from under my door. I thought some explanation in order.

“’Tis fleabane. I was visited in the night, and am now driving off my callers.”

Alice peered at me, uncomprehending.

“Fleas,” I explained. “Some unwashed villein introduced them into the hall yesterday. They found a home in my chamber last night.”

“Oh, sir…may I have some?”

“Fleas?”

“Nay, sir. Of them I have plenty. I sleep in a closet off the scullery, and they vex me now an’ then.”

“I have more fleabane, but ’tis in the chamber and I must not disturb the fumes while they do their work. Return at the ninth hour and I will give you some.”

“Thank you, sir.” The girl curtsied and ran gracefully off down the passage past the buttery door. I watched her scurry away. It was a rewarding experience. But I immediately felt sheepish for permitting my thoughts to wander so, with Alice but a child of fifteen years or so. Well, some tenant or servant to Lord Gilbert would have a fine wife in a few more years.

I left my chamber to the smoke and set off to find breakfast. I warned the servants at the kitchen to take no notice of the vapors rising into the great hall from under my door, then went to my daily rounds.

John Holcutt was busy seeing to the marling of a field and needed no advice on the matter from me. I walked to the meadow where the lamb was slain, but found only a few wisps of wool where the animal had lain. It was Richard Hatcher’s lamb. Doubtless what remained of it had become his dinner.

I was returning to the castle for my own dinner when the sound of shouting and agitated voices reached me across the meadow. Above the distant cacophony I heard my name. What now, I wondered? Life in Bampton was returning to its settled, peaceful ways after Alan the beadle’s death. I wished for no interruption of that tranquility.

I trotted across the meadow and walked rapidly down Mill Street past the castle toward town and the din. As I crossed the bridge over Shill Brook I saw a crowd milling before the blacksmith’s shop, where Church View Street entered Bridge Street. Some in the throng saw me approach and I was immediately hailed and urged to make haste. I did.

The knot of onlookers parted as I approached and in their shadow I saw a man lying in the street in a great pool of blood. One hand twitched at his side, the other was clasped to his neck. Between the fingers clutching his throat blood flowed in a copious stream. I knelt in the dirt and saw the man’s eyes follow me as I examined the wound under his fingers. Something, or someone, had slashed through the great vein. He had only minutes to live unless I could staunch the flow of blood.