by Mel Starr
The tunic was black, as befits a priest. As he approached I saw that it was made of a soft, fine wool. It was wrinkled and food-stained, but of better quality than the tunic that Thomas de Bowlegh, vicar of a larger church, wore.
“Ah, Master Hugh,” Kellet’s voice echoed off the grey stones of floor and walls. “What…what brings you here this day?”
I wished to return quickly to the miller’s broken arm, so did not squander time with niceties.
“A man died along the path to Bampton yesterday…or perhaps the night before.”
The priest started, and his sleepy, heavy-lidded eyes grew wide.
“Alan, the beadle,” I continued. “Did you know him?”
“Uh…aye, I believe so. Along the path, you say?”
“Aye. Just the other side of the wood beyond the churchyard. Plowmen found him this morning.”
“Did he have lands there?” the priest asked.
“No. He’d gone out to watch and warn Tuesday eve, and never returned.”
The priest pursed his lips. “Tsk,” he muttered. “Such a young man…but death takes us all.”
“Did you hear any strange, unnatural sound Tuesday eve?”
“Why, no. This death, does it trouble you?”
“I think, perhaps. The man’s throat was torn, as if a wild beast had attacked him. His head was broken, I know not how, and his shoes are taken, which no beast would do.”
“A beast, you say?” The priest frowned, and his mouth dropped open for a moment.
“Perhaps. His throat was torn. Fangs or claws might be the cause. Do you know of any wild hounds ranging in this parish?”
Kellet scratched the back of his shaggy head. “I’ve heard of nothin’ like that. ’Course, there is much waste land between here an’ Aston, since the great death. Beasts could prowl there an’ none the wiser.”
“Have any cotters hereabout lost animals recently? Sheep, or even fowl?”
“Oh, a duck or two goes missing every month or so, but I think a fox would do no harm to the beadle.”
“If you learn of evidence that savage beasts have been seen or heard, you must send word to me. It is my duty to keep Lord Gilbert’s lands free of such marauders…if such there be.”
“Mayhap,” the priest said, scratching his scalp again, “wolves have come down from Wales. The winter past was cruel. I have heard that wolves still prowl those untamed lands.”
“Perhaps,” I agreed. Actually, I did not agree. But having no better theory myself, I saw no reason to challenge the point. Certainly there is now, since plague has struck twice, in England much wasteland, where wolves could live and travel unmolested. But would a wolf make his presence in the shire first known by an attack on a man? I have heard tales of wolves, that they travel in packs and are seldom solitary. And they howl. Wolves are not silent creatures. It seemed to me a wolf would announce his presence with the taking of a sheep, or perhaps a pig rooting for last autumn’s acorns in the forest.
“I must return to Bampton. The miller awaits, with a broken arm. But before I go, there is also the matter of the missing shoes. Should you see a man wearing good shoes when he has owned recently only poor ones, send for me. This,” I held out the blue yarn, “was found at the scene of Alan’s death. Does anyone hereabouts wear a garment of this hue?”
Kellet stared at the strand and, I thought, seemed ill at ease. He shifted from one foot to another before he made answer.
“Wold is grown in most every toft,” he commented. “’Twould make a color much like this. But no, I know of no one of this parish who owns a cotehardie or surcoat of this pale blue.”
“Should you see such a garment, call for me at the castle.”
“I will…I will, indeed. And I’ll keep me eye peeled for shoes, as well.”
I thanked him for this, and set off for the town and the injured miller.
The miller had not moved from his bench. I found him sagging against a beam, his eyes gratifyingly heavy. The hemp and willow had done their work. Although the bruise made by the wheel was now growing fiercely purple, the break in Andrew’s forearm was clean and simple to treat. I took several thin canes I had cut along Shill Brook and bound them tightly about the forearm when I was satisfied that it was straight. I directed the miller’s wife to bring a bowl of water from the pond. Into this I poured a pouch of quicklime. All that remained was to soak linen strips in the plaster and wind these about the canes and the miller’s arm until it was well encased. I continued the stiffened linen past the miller’s elbow, to provide as much support as possible for the business of putting his shoulder right.
While the plaster dried and hardened I explored the shoulder with my fingers to see how badly out of joint it was. I felt the ball of the miller’s upper arm, and pressed firmly through his fleshy shoulder to find the empty socket. When I had found both ball and socket I manipulated the arm gently to see what work I had before me to put these parts together. I was shocked when I heard a muffled “click” and felt the arm spring back to its place under my touch.
Andrew twitched and yelped in a brief moment of pain, then relaxed as I dropped my hands and stepped back.
“Ah…you warned me. I shall try not to jerk about so as you work. How…how long will you be at putting my shoulder right?”
“I am done,” I replied, with rather more pride than was meet.
“Done?” The miller’s eyes widened. He moved his shoulder experimentally. “But I thought…you warned me of great pain. ’Twas but a prick. The potion, it must have been strong, indeed.”
“Indeed,” I agreed.
The miller stretched his shoulder again. “’Tis a wondrous thing, how with but a shift of your fingers you set me right.”
I did not tell Andrew that I was as amazed as he at the ease with which his shoulder was made whole. If he chooses to believe my skill extraordinary and tells his customers — and that would be all who live on Lord Gilbert’s lands, villein or free — that Master Hugh is gifted at his work, must I be distressed?
I told the miller that I would call on him in a few days to see how he got on, and that before St Swithin’s Day I would remove the stiffened linen and splints.
The miller was known as a parsimonious man. He was known also, like most of his trade, for defrauding on return of flour if he could do so without detection. He asked my fee. I expected an argument, but he paid without rancor. He fished six pence from a small chest which stood on a dusty table under the single dusty window which lighted the dusty mill.
The evening sun was well down in the west when I left the mill and turned toward Mill Street. I was just in time to see John Kellet waddle across the bridge over Shill Brook. The priest’s tunic billowed before his belly like a sail full of wind. Immediately across the bridge, he turned and took the path to the cottages in the Weald. Something to do with one of the bishop’s tenants, I assumed, and made my way to the castle.
I had made no progress in finding Alan’s missing shoes. This vexed me, but no matter how I considered the situation, I could see no path leading to their discovery. Unless someone reported new footgear on another, Matilda was not likely to get her husband’s shoes back.
Next day was Good Friday, beginning the commemoration of our Lord’s death and resurrection. I decided on a bath, both to clean myself for the holy days and, while I soaked, to devise some way I might track the missing shoes.
The kitchen was busy preparing supper, but not too busy. Lord Gilbert was in residence at Pembroke Castle, keeping the peace in Wales. So the evening meal would be simple. I told the cook that I required six buckets of hot water, delivered to my chamber after the meal.
For supper this day there was parsley bread, a pea soup, and cabbage with marrow. This was not a meal which would have satisfied Lord Gilbert Talbot, who at Pembroke at this hour would likely be dining on such as venison and salmon, and enjoying a subtlety with each remove. But compared to the fare at the Stag and Hounds, on the High Street in Oxford, where I
dined until Lord Gilbert brought me to Bampton, this repast was a feast.
When the simple meal was done I returned to my chamber — which did not take long, as the room opened on to the great hall. I busied myself with knives, scalpels and sharpening stone from my implements box until a light rapping sounded on my door. I opened it to see the child Alice atte Bridge standing before me, a bucket in each hand. “Hot water, sir,” she smiled, and curtsied.
As she did so some of the water slopped out of the buckets to the flagging. Two buckets full of water were a significant weight for her slender shoulders. “Sorry, sir. I’ll bring somethin’ t’mop it up.”
“Never mind. It’ll dry. Just pour the water in the barrel and fetch four more buckets.”
Alice dumped the water, glanced briefly at my instruments where I had spread them on my table, then scurried off for more. A year and a half had passed since I first met the girl. She had come to me seeking help for her father. He had slipped on icy cobbles and broken a hip. I could do nothing for him but administer potions which would relieve his pain and ease him to the next world.
The child had two half-brothers who would have despoiled her of anything she possessed from her father, could they have done so. But at her father’s death I advised her to remove all goods from the hut she shared with her father and take them to the castle. She was put to work in the scullery. Apparently this labor agreed with her. She was no longer the scrawny waif I had aided. She was taller, and no longer looked to be constructed of splinters and coppiced beech poles. I noted as she brought the next buckets that there were now pleasing bulges under her plain cotehardie. These curves were set off remarkably well by the simple belt she wore about her waist, a part of her which remained gratifyingly slender.
When she had delivered the last of the hot water and had curtsied her way out — no one having told her that she need not curtsy to a mere bailiff — I bolted the door, stripped off my clothing, and submerged so much of myself as was possible into the cask. This cask the carpenter had sawn in half for me.
I scrubbed myself clean with a much-shrunken woolen cloth which I keep for the purpose. I had had no bath since Ash Wednesday, which was more recent than most, as I am one of the few foolish enough to risk illness by bathing in winter. So it was pleasant to renew acquaintance with hot water and soak in the barrel until the water cooled. But I admit that no insight occurred while I squatted immersed in my barrel. Alan the beadle’s shoes were as lost after my bath as before.
I went from barrel to bed, taking time only to dry myself. I thought I should fall to sleep quickly; I had a full stomach and was warmed from my bath. But slumber would not come. I might as well have attended Alan’s wake, and sat with the corpse all night.
I reviewed the day and its events. The monotony of repetition did not quiet my mind. When I saw the glow of the waning paschal moon in my window, I rose from my bed, dressed, and quietly left my chamber. The porter’s assistant slumbered at the gatehouse. His duty was to keep watch over the castle through the night, but there was peace in the land and few brigands would dare Bampton Castle. His duty was tedious and conducive to slumber.
I coughed and scuffed my feet until my approach roused him. I did not wish the derelict watchman to awaken and find a shadowy stranger atop the castle wall. I bid the fellow “good evening” and climbed the gatehouse steps to the parapet.
I circled the castle wall indolently, stopping often to gaze through the merlons over the sleeping village to the east, and Lord Gilbert’s fields and forest to the west. Most of the village slept. Occasionally from the town I heard voices. Someone at Alan’s wake, I think, had too much ale and could be heard from Catte Street.
This echo of distant voices caused me at first to ignore another sound which came faintly to my ears. I know not how long I may have heard the howls before the indistinct sound finally registered in my mind. Off to the east, beyond St Andrew’s Chapel, I heard a yapping and howling soft in the distance.
I made my way to the tower at the southeast corner of the castle wall. This seemed to be the closest point to the direction from which the sound came. There was silence for a time, then the howls began again. As I listened the origin of the keening seemed to move to the south of the town, until after an hour or so of intermittent howls and silence, the source seemed to move directly south of the Weald. And then I heard it no more.
I had never before heard a wolf howl, but it seemed to me I had done so this night. Tomorrow, Good Friday or not, I would need to track and dispatch the animal which made these howls in the night. I did not know if this was the beast which slew Alan, but it seemed to me a reasonable suspicion. Perhaps Alan, as his wife had guessed, in his patrol had heard the wolf while Bampton slept and followed the sound to investigate. This would explain why he was found away from the town. But it would not explain his absent shoes.
I returned to my bed and slept fitfully until I heard in the distance the Angelus Bell sound from the tower of the Church of St Beornwald. I desired to organize a party immediately to seek out the wolf, but at the third hour Alan the beadle would be buried. I would not show disrespect to the dead by taking away those who would mourn and walk in his procession.
Chapter 3
I broke my fast with half a loaf of good maslin and a pint of ale, then made my way to Catte Street. Because of my position I would be among the chief mourners and, with Hubert Shillside, John Holcutt, Matilda, and a few other small burghers, would lead the procession to the church.
I was surprised to see that Matilda had provided a coffin. Most of the tenant class rest on their bier encased only in a black linen shroud. Alan’s brother and three others from the town took their places at the poles. When Thomas de Bowlegh arrived to lead the procession, they lifted the coffin and we in the cortege fell in behind the priest.
Matilda and most of the others began wailing in grief as the coffin left the ground, but I walked silently beside Hubert Shillside as we passed from Catte Street to the High Street and turned right up the Broad Street. As the procession entered Church Street I spoke: “I heard the beast last night,” I whispered.
“Beast?” Shillside questioned.
“Aye. The wolf which may have slain poor Alan. Sleep escaped me, so I rose to walk the castle parapet. ’Twas then I heard it, howling.”
“A wolf?”
“Perhaps. I know little of wolves but that they are said to howl of a moonlit night. ’Twas no hound, of this I feel certain.”
“Where away?”
“To the east at first, beyond St Andrew’s Chapel. Then, as the hour grew late, it moved to the south beyond the Weald.”
“Think you Alan heard it while we slept, and died following the sound?”
“I suspect it. But I would have his shoes. A wolf may have taken his life, but ’twas a man took his shoes.”
“Aye,” the coroner agreed, and we fell into a companionable silence for the remainder of the walk to the church.
Our conversation was not overheard by any other in the procession for the lamentation which accompanied our steps. Matilda and her sisters and cousins wailed loudly. Others in the procession behind them added to the din. The clamor did not subside until the bearers lowered the coffin at the lych gate.
Father Thomas is a good priest, and sends a man to meet God with dignity, even a bit of elegance — which some might think more than Alan’s station required. But if a poor man cannot receive consideration while on his bier, I know not where he may find it.
The bearers lifted the coffin again and took it to the church. Father Thomas spoke the Mourning Office in a clear, strong voice, then removed his chausable. A cloud of incense floated over poor Alan as the vicar swung the censor. He sprinkled holy water on the body, then began our Lord’s prayer, which all followed. There were the usual prayers of forgiveness and deliverance from judgment, then the bier was lifted once again and all followed it out through the porch to the churchyard.
Father Thomas led us to a shaded corner
near the wall, made the sign of the cross, and sprinkled holy water on the gravesite. The gravediggers, who had remained well back in the cortege, now came forward and set their spades to work at the chosen earth. The priest read psalms while these two were at their work.
When the grave was ready Alan’s brother lifted the coffin lid and he and the other bearers drew Alan in his shroud from the coffin and lowered him into the grave. As I suspected, Matilda could not afford to bury her husband in a coffin, but wished to show respect for her mate, so had rented a box from the carpenter — who stood in the group of mourners and watched as the gravediggers filled in the hole while Father Thomas spoke the final collect for forgiveness.
As the last dirt was shoveled on to the grave I caught a movement from the corner of my eye. Richard Hatcher, one of Lord Gilbert’s tenants, was motioning to John Holcutt from the churchyard wall. I gave no more attention to this, but went to offer sympathy to the widow. Matilda stood silent, staring at the fresh earth, her child clinging to her skirts, as the group of mourners began to break apart.
I do not now recall what I said to her. ’Twas probably trite. I thought to say to her that a funeral is not a time when the living mourn the dead, but rather a time when the dying remember those who are now alive in Christ, if their faith was whole.
Perhaps I should have spoken these words but I was uncertain how she would receive them. I may say this to her at some later time. I have learned that it is easier to say later what one should have said before, than to unsay what should not have been said at all.
Some may accuse me of forgetting purgatory. I have not. While a student at Oxford I rented from another scholar a Gospel of St John and copied it. These pages I have read many times, so that I remember many of the passages. Jesus said of himself, “Therefore if the Son makes you free, you shall be free indeed.”
If our Lord has made a man free, how can he then be imprisoned in purgatory? And how is a man made free? The scriptures speak plainly: through faith in Christ, the Son of God, who takes away the sins of the world. If Christ has taken away Alan’s sins, why must he be punished for them in purgatory?
