A Corpse at St Andrew's Chapel

by Mel Starr

  A boy who grows to manhood with three older brothers, as I did, learns to defend himself in a scrap. Once, when I was twelve or perhaps thirteen, I became embroiled in a dispute with my next older brother. Nicholas was two years older, a stone heavier, and a hand taller. It was his height, I think, which caused a blow of mine to miss its mark, which was his chin, and strike instead his throat, upon his adam’s apple.

  I learned two things from this misguided stroke. The first is that a man’s throat is a much softer target than his teeth. A blow against a foe’s neck will not result in split knuckles as will a fist against a man’s jaw.

  And secondly, I learned that the adam’s apple is a tender part of human anatomy. No sooner had I struck my brother than he fell to his knees gagging and retching, both hands to his injured throat. He did not recover from this agony quickly. And all the while he gasped and suffered, I begged his forgiveness and pleaded mischance – which it was, although I admit that he had antagonized me so that at the moment I cocked my arm I intended to do him some harm. But not so much as I did.

  This event returned to me as I scrambled to my feet. My attacker threw the broken remains of his cudgel at me, and missed, as he could not see me clearly. This was good, for although I saw his arm swing forward above me as I struggled to my feet, I could not see the broken club to duck as it whistled past my ear.

  With a grunt of rage the man charged. I stepped back and allowed him to stumble into the darkened ditch at the edge of the road. Combat with my brothers came back to me again. As they were older and larger, it was always their goal to seize me in close struggle and wrestle me to their will. I learned to keep my distance and not be drawn into a grappling contest.

  My attacker had fallen to his knees in the ditch, and was now below me. I was the one who was upright and silhouetted against the evening sky. So when the man charged at me again from the verge, on his knees, I did not see him coming until he was upon me.

  His shoulder struck me in the hip and together we rolled in the muddy road. We came to a stop, with my assailant on top. I knew I was in trouble. Although I could not see either his face or form, I knew he must be heavier than me, for I am a slender man.

  Bruce, as this battle raged, stood as he was when I was dislodged from his back. He had seen enough of combat to be unsurprised when the men about him fell into strife. The horse waited patiently for the outcome. But he did not like it when my foe and I rolled close behind him, panting and grunting. Bruce aimed a gentle kick from a massive rear hoof just as my mysterious attacker propped himself over my fallen form and bent to seize my throat. The kick struck the fellow on his back and sent him tumbling over my head into a roadside hedgerow as if he were some child’s discarded plaything.

  I silently thanked Bruce for his aid and scrambled to my feet to prepare for another rush. It came, but not soon. I heard, from the brambles of the ditch, my assailant gasping for the breath Bruce’s blow had knocked from him. Had I my wits fully about me then, I would have mounted Bruce and sent him galloping for home. It is always easier to think later what should have been done in such moments. Usually what should have been done, and what was done, are different things. Rarely have I looked back on the calamitous events of my life and found my conduct at those times to be what I later determined it should have been. Surely I am not alone in this.

  I girded myself for the fellow’s next attack, which I assumed would come when he could gather his wits. Come it did, although had he any wits he would not have plotted this attack at all. So I waited. But not, perhaps, for returning wits.

  This time I thought to crouch low so as to hide my shape in the shadows of the forest across the road. I watched as the dim form slowly extricated itself from the brambles of the verge, stood, and cast about seeking me. At last the man’s face settled in my direction and with a howl of fury he threw himself at me.

  I stepped to my left, the better to position my right fist. It was too dark for my assailant to see this movement clearly, so he plunged ahead where he thought I was. His face, which I could not recognize in the brief moments it was dimly visible, was a pale orb reflecting the nearly vanished twilight. For as he lunged he faced the west, and I, toward the east.

  I cocked my arm, clenched my fist, and when he drew near I aimed a blow to strike just below that waxen visage. I put all my inadequate weight behind the stroke. As the man was lurching toward me, the combined effect was of some consequence. And as I hoped, my fist caught him just below the chin, directly upon his adam’s apple.

  He fell, bellowing, to his knees, tried to stand, then dropped to the mud again. This, combined with the direction of his final lunge toward me, brought him again close to Bruce’s hindquarters. The animal seemed not to mind men’s quarrels overmuch, so long as they did not include him. But when it seemed the disputes might embrace him as well, he did what any worried horse might do.

  This kick was, I think, delivered with more force than the first, as if Bruce wished to say, “I warned you…now pay the price.”

  It was too dark to see where the kick landed, but I heard it well enough, and I heard the wind go out of my foe like air forced from a blacksmith’s bellows. I heard him roll, gasping and choking once again, to the darkened hedgerow. I could see nothing of him there, but there was much to hear. The fellow tossed himself about and groaned in agony, so that had I been a hundred paces from the place I could have heard him clearly. Someone, perhaps closer than that, did hear this thrashing and moaning. Perhaps they thought the sufferer was me. I am sure they hoped ’twas so.

  Again I had opportunity to mount Bruce and be off, but again I did not. Perhaps it was curiosity which fastened me to the spot. I wondered what might come next, when I should have rather escaped, for when the man recovered from his hurt I might learn a thing I did not wish to know.

  But I was fortunate. The scuffling and retching by the hedgerow ceased, replaced by deep and labored breathing. I sensed, rather than saw, that my attacker was risen to his feet, and braced myself for another charge. It did not come.

  Instead I heard the man’s uneven footfalls as he stumbled through the mud and into the forest which bounded the western edge of the road. I heard him plunge into the wood, then above the crackle of breaking twigs and crushed leaves I heard a voice. ’Twas barely more than a whisper, due to stealth, or perhaps the blow I gave his throat. I know not which. And because he created such a racket as he dove into the copse I did not hear clearly all that was said. But three words I heard well enough to not mistake them: “Begone…he lives.”

  It was me spoken of, I am sure. And no sooner had these words come to me from the woods than I heard other feet making hasty departure, stumbling over the winter’s fallen branches not yet gleaned for firewood.

  Then the forest grew quickly silent and I was left standing alone in the darkened road. There had been two who awaited me this night, but only one saw fit to attack. Why was this so? Two might have overpowered me. Perhaps they thought that one assailant was enough. My slender physique would not strike fear in the heart of a sturdily made man. Whatever the reason, but one had fallen upon me and with Bruce’s aid he had been driven off. I felt fortunate. The words hissed from the forest but a moment before came back to me. “He lives.” It was clear to me that I was not attacked for my purse. I was intended to die in the mud of the road.

  I thought I knew who my assailant was, and why he wished me dead. But to kill a man because of a pair of shoes? Who would do such a thing? Perhaps, I reflected, there is more to this matter than shoes.

  Such thoughts occupied my mind as I stretched my aching shoulders, climbed to Bruce’s broad back, and settled myself for the last half-mile to Bampton and the castle. Certainly Henry atte Bridge despised me for interfering in his life. I had demanded his presence and homage at his father’s funeral. I had helped his half-sister escape with what few possessions she could gather from her father’s hut. I had discovered his falsity about his shoes. He could not know this yet, but perhaps su
spected it, for he saw me ride north earlier that day.

  Wilfred had left the gate open and the portcullis drawn awaiting my return. I gave Bruce over to him with a charge that the horse was to receive an extra measure of oats this night. He assured me that the marshalsea would be so instructed and led the animal to the stables while his assistant swung the doors closed and cranked down the portcullis.

  I did not wish to show myself to the castle residents in my soiled state. Dark as it was in the castle yard, Wilfred was unaware of the mud which covered me, but the light of a single candle would make my condition clear.

  So I was relieved to gain entrance to the great hall, and my chamber, without being seen. There remained some water in a bucket from my morning ablution. I removed my soiled clothes and mopped my grimy face and arms before donning clean chauces, kirtle and cotehardie. When I felt presentable I made my way to the kitchen and procured for myself another cold supper. This was becoming a habit I had no wish to continue. I fell asleep that night pondering how I might confront Henry atte Bridge. I might have saved myself the worry. Someone else confronted him first.

  Chapter 6

  Sunday dawned bright and clear. There was in the yellow tint of the sun’s slanting beams a promise of warmth before the day was old.

  I admit that I find it disagreeable to rise for matins on the Lord’s Day. This is especially so when winter holds a dark curtain over all so early in the morning. But this day glistened with the promise of spring. And I was alive. It was clear to me that two men wished it otherwise. I had Bruce to thank for my life, but God also. If he could be diverted from more important matters to see my life prolonged, I would be ungrateful to ignore an opportunity to thank Him for His trouble.

  I left the church after matins to await the mass in the churchyard. Many centuries of burials have left the grounds around the Church of St Beornwald lifted above the paths which lead from the church to the graves and the lych gate in the churchyard wall. In this way the church at Bampton is like that of my home in Little Singleton, and every other churchyard in the kingdom. Should Christ delay his return, these burial hummocks will someday, I think, rise to block the sun from the church windows.

  I climbed one of these low mounds and sat, my back to the rising sun, to wait for the bells which would announce the next service. No sound but the soft piping of a bullfinch disturbed my reverie. The bird left his oaken perch at the edge of the churchyard and darted, a small orange and black comet, past the church tower and into the wood to the north of the churchyard. A bullfinch! I hoped this fellow had not many brothers hereabouts, for if so, they would soon be feasting on the buds of Lord Gilbert’s apple trees.

  Beyond the wood where the bullfinch vanished I saw other birds. In the high, distant sky four buzzards circled in the calm morning air, black against the blue heavens.

  St Beornwald’s bell jolted me from my wool-gathering and I joined the flow of worshippers making their way to the porch. The stone building was cold, so when Father Thomas concluded his sermon all present were pleased that they would soon be released to return to the sun, now well up above the town rooftops and making the church windows a blaze of color.

  The vicars greeted parishioners at the porch as we filed eagerly from the building. Not that all were impatient to be released from their worship, although surely some were of such a mind. After a long winter a pleasant spring day is much welcome and not to be wasted.

  As I walked the path from porch to churchyard I noticed Thomas de Bowlegh in conversation with a woman. Her back was to me, but Father Thomas’ features were visible, and creased with concern. His brow was furrowed, and his lips pursed. Then the woman, in great agitation, turned to point to the east and I saw it was Emma, the wife of Henry atte Bridge. Perhaps, I thought, he came home last night in ill humor and beat her to make up for his loss elsewhere. And now she complained to the Bishop of Exeter’s representative of her husband’s cruelty.

  I walked on toward the castle and my dinner but had gone but a few paces down Church View Street when I heard my name called. Thomas de Bowlegh had ended his conversation in the churchyard and was now panting after me. “Master Hugh…a word,” the vicar puffed as he approached. “Henry atte Bridge…you know him?”

  I nodded.

  “Henry has disappeared. His wife came to me this morning after mass.”

  “Is he a reliable man?” I asked. I thought I knew the answer to that question, but perhaps others saw the man differently than I.

  The vicar hesitated. “No less than others. He’s not run off before, and does his week work for the bishop with no more prodding than most.”

  “Ah, yes, the new tithe barn. I saw him at work on it yesterday as I passed.”

  I saw a quizzical expression pass briefly across de Bowlegh’s face, so I explained my mission, the reason for it, and what I had learned. I also told him of the attack. I saw the vicar’s jaw grow tight and his lips draw into a thin line as I completed the tale.

  “Think you he has fled…to escape judgment for his misdeeds?”

  “What does his wife think?” I replied.

  “Does she know of his transgression? She did not speak of such. But she wouldn’t, would she. No, she fears some harm has come to him.”

  “Did she say why he was out past curfew?”

  “He had returned from working on the new barn, then told his wife he was off to seek wood in the forest. ’Tis a right the common folk have on the bishop’s lands, as with Lord Gilbert’s estate, I think.”

  I nodded, for I know well the ancient liberties. “And he did not return?” I asked, “even with the dawn?”

  “Nay. The woman is anxious that he be found. She fears he has suffered some hurt and lays injured in the forest.”

  “You wish me to search Lord Gilbert’s woodlands hereabouts?”

  “Aye. He should not have been gathering wood on m’lord’s land, if gathering wood was his business, but such as he might seek where they will, rather than where they ought.”

  “Did he tell his wife where he might seek wood?”

  “Aye. Said as he’d seen many limbs down in the wood near where the tithe barn is new built.”

  “And near where I was assailed last night,” I added.

  “You think Henry atte Bridge the man who lay in wait for you?”

  “What other man wishes me ill?”

  “Perhaps ’twas a thief.”

  “Perhaps. But as the miscreant plunged into the wood I heard him say to another, ‘He lives.’”

  “Hmmm.” The priest pulled at his chin, an action which reminded me of Lord Gilbert Talbot, who does likewise when puzzled. “Perhaps we should begin our search at the place you were attacked. There may be a trail we might follow. Do you think your blow, or the horse’s kick, might have injured the fellow so he could not continue his flight…if ’twas Henry who did this thing?”

  “I think he was not so badly harmed as that.”

  And then the circling buzzards caught my eye again. They drifted on the wind north of the town, near where I had fought for my life the night before. I watched them silently, and as I did the vicar turned to see what so absorbed my attention.

  We stared at the great birds, contemplating their possible significance. The vicar spoke first. “I will gather some clerks. Will you come and show us where we must begin our search? I think,” he sighed, “’twill not be far from where those buzzards now soar.”

  “Aye…not far.”

  Father Thomas and I returned to the church, where we found Simon Osbern and three clerks preparing for evensong. The priest explained our mission, tactfully omitting any word of the altercation wherein I had found myself.

  “Master Hugh,” he asserted, “believes he may have seen a man in the north woods, near to the new barn…is that not so, Master Hugh?”

  “Aye, though ’twas near dark. I can show you the place.”

  The four men needed no urging to leave their duties and join the hunt. When a man has heard
the beginning of such a tale he is not content until he knows the end of it.

  I led our party north on the Broad Street, past the bishop’s new barn now standing completed to its frame and thatching. Truth to tell, I was not sure of the exact place along the road where I was waylaid. It was near dark, and I was not concerned at the time with the scenery.

  I slowed my pace when we were well past the new barn. The others kept in step, the clerks behind as fitted their station, Thomas de Bowlegh and Simon Osbern at either hand. The priests’ gaze swung between me and the road. They studied me intently while I studied the path.

  There had been few travelers on the road that day. No one was about his trade on a Sunday. So I followed the track of a well-shod horse as we made our way north. The animal had been going south, and not so long before. I was sure the horse was Bruce.

  It was. We came upon a place where the horse had halted for some time. The drying mud of the road was patterned with the marks of the animal’s great hooves. At the side of the track I saw the verge disturbed where first I, then my attacker, had scrambled in the mire. I stopped.

  “This is the place?” Father Thomas asked. “Whereabouts in the wood must we begin our search?”

  I pointed to the grove, where the night before I had heard two men scrambling through the dark. Above my upraised finger the buzzards circled over the forest, a hundred paces west of the road. I glanced in their direction. Father Thomas followed my gaze and divined its meaning.

  “Come,” he commanded, and plunged into the wood. Father Thomas, Simon Osbern, the clerks and I followed.

  Father Thomas is a fine priest, but his skills are not related to either strength or endurance. In but a few moments the priest was winded and staggering from the exertion of pushing through brambles and fallen branches. He is not a young man. After a few stumbles over ground ivy and limbs he tired, so that when his foot caught the next tendril he fell heavily. This did him no great harm. The forest floor was deep in rotting leaves.