Unhallowed Ground

by Mel Starr

  “What did Thomas reply?”

  “He laughed. Said I’d done him a favor, putting a shaft in Henry’s back.”

  “How so?”

  “He’d been encroaching upon Emma’s furrow since, taking as his lands those which were Henry’s.”

  “Where did you have this conversation?”

  “In the toft behind Thomas’s cottage. I disturbed his hens, so he’d think mayhap a fox was at them. Thought the cacklin’ would draw him out, an’ it did so.”

  “And this was the night before St George’s Day? Not St George’s Day?”

  “Aye, it was.”

  “So Thomas harbored you no ill will?”

  “No more so than against any man. He and Henry disliked all. This was why I sought them when I yet lived in my sin. I knew I would find willing conspirators.”

  “You sought Thomas atte Bridge, to confess a sin against him, but you would willingly have seen me dead in the churchyard of St Andrew’s Chapel and helped to bury me. You saw no need to seek my forgiveness while in Bampton?”

  Kellet studied his feet again. “I should have done,” he said to the floor, “but I thought you would be angered to learn that I was about, and I wished no more trouble from a vengeful bailiff.”

  Kellet had thought I would not forgive his evil done to me, so to avoid my scorn he did not seek me. Was this so? Would I have denied him forgiveness had he asked? I fear so, for my dislike of a priest who would have seen me murdered and who betrayed the confessional was great. Is this also a sin, to refuse forgiveness, even for such evil deeds?

  “Tell me of departing Bampton and what you saw at Cow-Leys Corner.” I was not yet convinced of Kellet’s truthfulness, and thought to seek some contradiction between his words and what I knew of Thomas atte Bridge’s death.

  “I wished to be away from Bampton, beyond Clanfield, before any were upon the streets, so I arose well before dawn. Father Simon’s cook left a loaf for me, as I had told of my plan. I took part of the loaf and set out.

  “The moon had not yet set, and by its light I saw a form hanging at Cow-Leys Corner while I was yet fifty paces or more from the place. I hurried to the tree, but the man was dead.”

  “You did not recognize Thomas atte Bridge?”

  “His face was dark and swollen, and well above me. But I thought then ’twas him.”

  “You sought no aid?”

  “To what purpose? He was a dead man. And I was too much the coward to face the questions which would come did any know I had returned to Bampton.”

  “You are certain he was dead?”

  “Aye. I touched his arm. It was cold. He was dead long before I found him.”

  “And you would not call the hue and cry?”

  “’Twas near dawn. The sky to the east was growing light. I wished to be gone, and I knew that soon there would be folk upon the road.”

  “You were once fat with indulgence, but are now but skin and bones. Was pilgrimage so arduous?”

  “No more than should be.”

  “Should be?”

  “What favor from God if a penance be easy?”

  “You found God’s favor?”

  “Aye. I did not seek it, at first, but found it, as the Lord Christ found me.”

  “How did He do so?”

  “I set out for Compostela in foul mood, angry at all who crossed my path. I had traveled as far as Gascony when I fell in with a Franciscan who also traveled to Compostela. I wished no companion but he persisted and I came to accept his presence. He told me later he saw my wrath and knew the Lord Christ had put me in his way.”

  “You journeyed to Compostela with this friar?”

  “Aye. There were other pilgrims on the way, but none wished to join with me, so black was my temper.”

  “And this friar chose to walk with you even though other more amenable companions were at hand?”

  “No matter how sour my words, I could not drive the friar away. When I was silent, so also was he. When I spoke, he listened and rarely answered. Not at first. Before three days passed he knew all.”

  “And he did not desert you then?”

  “Nay. He opened to me the Scriptures. I had thought my sins so great that no deeds of mine, no pilgrimage, could wipe them away. In this I was correct, the friar said. No man can earn heaven.”

  “‘Why this pilgrimage, then?’ I asked the fellow.”

  “What did he reply?”

  “It was of no value to save my soul, he said.”

  Kellet was silent, again staring at his dirty, emaciated feet. “The Lord Christ died for my sins,” he said, “so I, and all men, might find salvation, did we believe and follow His commands.”

  “And this you now believe?”

  “Aye.”

  “But you seek to earn God’s favor now by helping the poor and denying yourself. You wear a hair shirt.”

  “The shirt will not save my soul from God’s wrath. I wear it but to remind me of what I owe to the Lord Christ. It is His death, the friar said, that was in place of my own. I live now not to win salvation, for such is mine already, but in respect to the commands of the Lord Christ, who taught that we must care for the poor.”

  “And you traveled to Bampton to show others of your change of heart?”

  “Nay. Such would have been prideful. I wished to confess and seek forgiveness of those I had wronged: Father Simon and Thomas atte Bridge.”

  “But not me?”

  “I should have, I now see. I might have saved you a long journey. But I was fearful of your wrath. No man wishes to anger the bailiff of a powerful lord, can he avoid it.”

  Had I been so harsh that even a man reformed of past transgressions would fear to face me? I did not think myself so frightening. Perhaps a bailiff needs to create a sense of apprehension in those who might violate the law. Can I better govern Lord Gilbert’s manor if I am feared or loved? Surely John Kellet and Thomas atte Bridge neither feared nor loved me when they thought me dead and plotted my burial outside the church wall at St Andrew’s Chapel a year past.

  “Thomas atte Bridge was dead and cold when you passed Cow-Leys Corner?” I said, returning to my inquiry.

  “He was.”

  “You were about when all good men are to be abed, behind closed and barred doors. Did you see any other man upon the road?”

  “None other. Thomas was cold. I saw the stool he stood upon to hang himself overturned near the tree, where he kicked it.”

  “You thought him a suicide?”

  “Aye. Was he not? A moment past you charged me with his death.”

  “Thomas atte Bridge did not take his own life,” I replied. I did not offer why I believed this was so, and Kellet did not ask. He found me trustworthy; more so than I found him.

  “When you spoke to atte Bridge in his toft, did he seem ready to take his own life?”

  “Nay. Why encroach upon Emma’s furrow did he not plan to harvest the crop he would plant there?”

  “Yet when you saw him dead, at his own hand, as you thought, this did not puzzle you?”

  “Thomas was ever unpredictable and hasty in his judgments… especially had he too much ale of an evening.”

  “You thought him dead of his own hand in drunken insensibility?”

  “Aye, something like that.”

  “You did not consider that there are those in Bampton and the Weald who might wish to do him harm?”

  “Him, and me also, but such a thought did not come to me then.”

  “Atte Bridge died at the end of a hempen cord taken from Father Simon’s shed,” I announced.

  Kellet looked up to me from the bench, his eyes wide. “This is sure?” He appeared a man whose carefully plotted tale was about to be undone.

  “Aye, as sure as can be. The cord was gone, then returned a week past, missing the length found with the corpse at Cow-Leys Corner.”

  “I was here, in Exeter.”

  “When the cord was returned, aye, but not when it was taken. One
man did not haul Thomas atte Bridge from his toft to Cow-Leys Corner and there hang him. There is evidence that two did so. The man who took the rope from Father Simon may not be he who returned the unused portion.”

  Kellet was silent again. I thought, nay, I hoped, that he was a guilty man devising some tale which might deflect suspicion, some tale I might catch him up in. My only option, if Kellet were innocent as he claimed, was to return to Bampton and discover there a felon.

  “So you believe me guilty of the crime,” Kellet said softly, “along with some companion. Who in Bampton remembers me so fondly they would do murder with me? I am disliked there by all men, as much as Thomas atte Bridge was.”

  I could not argue the point. But to agree with Kellet would be to deny his guilt, to admit that my journey to Exeter had failed, and further, would require of me forgiveness of the man’s crimes against me. Forgiveness is costly, but not so dear as anger and hatred and resentment. These three had taken me to Exeter, with a bit of suspicion added. My mistrust of Kellet would linger, I knew, but I saw that my wish for evidence of his guilt over any other man was due to desire as much as to evidence.

  Father Simon had told me John Kellet was a changed man, but was I? Kellet surely needed to transform his life, although I yet held suspicion of whether or not he had truly done so.

  Men who knew John Kellet a year past would agree about the man’s need to reform. What of me? Did I seek guilt where it would be most convenient? There was evidence to direct my suspicion to Kellet, but when I learned from Father Simon that he had amended his ways, I wished not to believe it so. If Kellet was indeed a changed man, I could not assign another death to him, as I wished to do.

  Kellet had not asked for my forgiveness, so he said, because he was fearful I would not grant it. Must I now ask his forgiveness for doubting the transformation in his life? I did not do so, and now, some weeks later, as I write of these events, my heart is troubled.

  There was little more to learn from John Kellet. If the man was a murderer, I had found no way to prove it so or coerce a confession from him, although I admit that when I left the almoner’s chamber I had not given up all hope that somehow he might be discovered guilty of Thomas atte Bridge’s death. I did not wish to return to Bampton a failure, nor did I wish to see some friend of mine hang for avenging themselves upon Thomas atte Bridge.

  I wished justice to strike John Kellet for his past sins. What of my sins? For those, I desired the Lord Christ to have compassion and show mercy. May justice and compassion live together? If so, how may a bailiff blend the two, or is such the work of God only?

  I did not wish to agree with Father Simon, but my conversation with John Kellet left me with few options. If Kellet was not a man transformed, he was a better actor than any I had seen perform upon the streets of Oxford or Paris.

  I found Arthur and Uctred and told them we would begin our return to Bampton next day. For what remained of this day I had another goal: I wished to see the cathedral.

  The Church of St Peter is a wondrous structure, as are all great cathedrals. I have worshipped in the abbey church at Westminster, at Notre Dame and St Denis in Paris, and at Canterbury. I am always filled with wonder to do so. Is the awe I feel due to the magnificence of God, or the works of man? Perhaps man’s soul magnifies the Lord Christ in his works.

  Early next day Arthur, Uctred, and I set out for home. I did not bid John Kellet farewell. I should not have behaved so meanly, but I was yet distressed that the most convenient felon had eluded me.

  I turned in my saddle as the road crested a hill above the valley of the Exe to gain a last view of the cathedral rising majestically over the town, then set my face toward home and Kate.

  Toward the ninth hour of the next day we again halted before the gatehouse of Glastonbury Abbey. I was not pleased to lose a day of return to Kate, but I had promised Brother Alnett to deal with his other cataract, and to demonstrate the procedure to the infirmarer’s assistant. And ’tis true enough that our three elderly beasts would appreciate a day of rest.

  The hosteler was pleased to see me, and announced that he had sent to London for eyeglasses. “From Florence,” he said proudly, “where the best are made, ’tis said by all.”

  Next morn after terce I couched Brother Alnett’s cataract-clouded right eye, with the infirmarer’s assistant peering intently over my shoulder. He needed a more proficient tutor, but in the breech I must serve. I pray, if the man is called to couch a brother’s cataract, he may meet with good success though his instruction may have been wanting.

  Chapter 9

  Three days later, Whitsunday, shortly after the sixth hour, we weary travelers passed Cow-Leys Corner and the oak where Thomas atte Bridge died. I was dolorous for my failure at Exeter. To revisit the scene where my disquiet began reduced the joy I felt at returning to wife and hearth.

  I left Bruce at the marshalsea and made my way past the mill to Church View Street and Galen House. Kate seemed much pleased at my return, and after an embrace set about preparing a feast to celebrate the event.

  She disappeared into the toft and a moment later I heard a chicken squawk. Kate reappeared with a capon dangling from her hand. My dinner had taken its first step toward my belly.

  While she plucked and cleaned the fowl, I announced my intention to scrub away the dirt of road and inn. I have a barrel, sawn in half, which I keep for the purpose. From the well I brought several buckets of water which I poured into iron kettles and set upon the hearth, near the fire. As Kate had placed more wood upon the blaze to prepare for roasting the capon, the water in these pots was soon warm enough for my purpose. I emptied the kettles into the barrel, stripped off cotehardie, chauces, kirtle and braes, and immersed myself in the soothing bath. While I soaked, Kate set the capon to roasting, then took my cotehardie to the toft where she noisily pounded the dust from it.

  I was soon garbed in clean braes, chauces, kirtle and cotehardie, and enjoyed a stomach full of roasted capon. To conclude the meal, Kate had prepared some days past a chardedate, expecting my imminent return. The dates and honey were a delightful welcome home.

  I would not seek another journey to Exeter, or any other place, but returning home to Kate’s embrace made the hardship of travel fade. Memories of the road stretching before me, Bruce’s jouncing gait, the verminous inns, the failure to discover a murderer, all these were blotted from my mind as the sun fell below Lord Gilbert’s forest to the west.

  Kate’s appetite had returned. Next morn, as we shared a maslin loaf, she told me the gossip of the town.

  “There was a marriage three days past,” Kate announced between bites of her loaf. “Edmund the smith wed Emma atte Bridge.”

  So the town smith married the widow of a man who had blackmailed him a year past. This was no business of mine. Edmund was Lord Gilbert’s tenant, not a villein. He could wed as he wished. And Emma atte Bridge was a tenant of the Bishop of Exeter and no concern of mine.

  “You have not spoken of John Kellet since your return,” Kate remarked. “Did he do murder when he visited?”

  “I think not.”

  “Your face and mood speak disappointment.”

  “If Father Simon’s judgment is true, and Kellet be a changed man, I must seek a murderer among our neighbors.”

  “What of your judgment?” she asked.

  “I fear Father Simon is correct.”

  “You fear?”

  “Aye. I will be doubly cursed when I find who murdered Thomas atte Bridge. I will send some acquaintance to the gallows, and his fellow townsmen will blame me for the death. Whoso he may be, he – and his companion, for more than one man dragged Thomas atte Bridge to Cow-Leys Corner – is considered by most to have done a commendable service to Bampton and the Weald.”

  Kate hesitated before she replied. “Will you abandon the search? All men think atte Bridge took his own life. None would fault you for admitting agreement.”

  “None but myself. And you? Would you think well of me di
d I quit the search for a felon, or would I forfeit some small part of your esteem?”

  “You will continue, then?”

  “What else may I do? Justice belongs to all.”

  “Even those who deny it to others?” Kate mused.

  “It must be so. What is justice but truth with its sleeves rolled up, ready for labor? If only those who have always done justly, who have always spoken truth, deserve justice, who, then, is worthy?”

  “Then you must do as your conscience requires. If you succeed, and find a murderer all the town would prefer remain concealed, and we are then hated in this place, we may return to Oxford. A good surgeon will not lack bread for his babes.”

  Kate had grown fond of Bampton. She told me so but a fortnight after we wed. I thought she might miss the bustle of Oxford, but she claimed not so. It was easier, she declared, to find friends in a small town than in a city, where folk seem too occupied to concern themselves with others. So to advise removing to Oxford spoke more than the words alone might mean. Here was Kate’s admission that I must pursue justice no matter where the path might lead.

  But where did the path begin? It is difficult to conclude a journey at the proper destination if one cannot find where to begin. I saw before me several roads, but which must I follow?

  I left Kate with an embrace and sought the Weald. To reach Maud atte Bridge’s hut I must cross Shill Brook. I have passed this way many times, but the flowing stream, any flowing stream, always seizes my eye. I stood upon the bridge, observing the clear water pass beneath the span. But this wool-gathering would achieve nothing. I turned from the pleasant scene to my disagreeable duty.

  Maud’s oldest lad answered my knock upon her door. When Maud heard my voice she appeared behind the youth in the smoky gloom of her hovel. I had spent time drawing and heating water to help rid myself of stink and vermin. I did not wish to do so again, so bid Maud speak to me on the street before her hut. I was sure the place harbored more life than Maud and her children.

  “You came to me a month past, sure that Thomas did not take his own life,” I began. The woman made no reply.

  “You said he heard the hens disturbed – perhaps by a fox, so went to chase away the animal, and you did not see him alive again.”