A Corpse at St Andrew's Chapel

by Mel Starr

  “Stay behind,” I whispered, “so you are not seen. Stand beside me upon my signal.”

  Kellet and his visitor had slowed their race to escape the wood and were backing slowly across the chapel yard, eyes fixed on the wall and the dark copse beyond. I wish there had been more light. I should like to have seen their eyes when I stood at the wall and appeared, an apparition, as they thought, from the dead.

  I moaned once more. The effect had been salubrious before, so I tried it again. The result was remarkably similar. The two men stood agape, too startled to run.

  “I will be avenged,” I said again. “And Alan, too.” I pulled John to his feet beside me.

  ’Twas too dark for us to be identified. They might assume my identity – or that of my specter – at the wall, but they could not see to be sure. They could surely not see that the apparition beside me was the new beadle, not the old.

  “You know we cannot pursue you on to consecrated ground,” I hissed loudly. “But we will be avenged.” John stood beside me, nodding vigorously, so that even in the dark his agreement might be seen.

  “’Twasn’t me,” Kellet squealed.

  “Shut up,” the other cried.

  “Why? They’re spirits. They’ll know who ’twas who did for ’em.”

  “Then no need to tell ’em.”

  “They won’t know I had naught to do with it. ’Twas Henry killed Alan,” the priest blurted.

  “And now he lies in his grave,” I murmured. “As you will soon, Thomas atte Bridge.”

  “No,” the man stammered, and I knew the beadle was right. It was Thomas there with the priest. I saw his shape take a step away from me and the wall. “You will not take me…you cannot enter here.”

  “True,” I said softly, “I cannot enter. And you, you cannot leave…else I will have you.”

  Atte Bridge took another step back. Kellet turned from me to his companion and back again. I spoke next to the priest.

  “A priest who profits from poaching. Lord Gilbert will find you out, even so I am gone and may not tell him so.”

  It was Kellet’s turn to take a step back from the wall.

  “’At’s right,” Thomas quaked. “’Twas ’im gained from all.”

  I believe it was about that moment that Kellet realized he might deal not with specters but with flesh and blood. “Be silent, you fool,” the priest demanded.

  “Nay…I’ll not bear the wrath o’ spirits alone when ’twas you planned all.”

  “The wrath of spirits,” I murmured, “is much to be feared. But best fear this priest. When we come for you we may find you among us already.”

  I saw atte Bridge turn to Kellet, and realized that the churchyard was not so dark as had been. Dawn was beginning to lighten the sky to the east of the chapel.

  “What…what does ’e mean?” Thomas asked the priest.

  My next words were a gamble, but one with small risk. “Tell Thomas,” I whispered loudly, “what happened to his brother.”

  The priest made no answer.

  “What ’appened to me brother?” Thomas asked.

  “Tell him,” I sighed. “You know well.”

  “Who killed ’Enry? You know an’ ’aven’t told me?”

  “He cannot tell,” I hissed.

  “Aye,” Kellet agreed. “I cannot tell, for I know not who killed ’im.”

  “A lie,” I charged. “You cannot tell for to do so would be to indict yourself.”

  “You…?” Thomas exclaimed.

  “Nay…he lies,” the priest cried.

  “Spirits do not lie,” atte Bridge declared.

  “Be silent,” Kellet shouted. “These are not spirits.”

  He said no more, for Thomas delivered a blow from his right fist which knocked the corpulent priest to his well-padded rump. He then set about pummeling Kellet about the head so that John and I were able to leap the wall and approach before Thomas knew we were upon him. The beadle was a step behind me, so I did not see him cock his cudgel. But I heard the club as it passed my ear and landed solidly upon Thomas atte Bridge’s head. He fell across the priest’s prone form, and both lay silent and unmoving at our feet.

  “Well done,” I complimented John. He, meanwhile, had drawn the club back for another blow, should it be necessary. ’Twas not.

  The rotund priest struggled to draw himself from under the comatose cotter. I thought he intended to run, but then he saw the cocked club in the beadle’s hands and thought of a better escape.

  “I am the bishop’s man. You have no bailiwick here,” he cried.

  “True enough. But when Lord Gilbert learns of this he will have a word with Thomas de Bowlegh. And Henry atte Bridge died in Lord Gilbert’s forest.” I stepped closer to the quaking priest. “That is my bailiwick.”

  “Then you must seek Henry’s killer,” Kellet stammered.

  “I have…and found him.”

  “Have you proofs?”

  The priest had me. I was sure ’twas he who lay in ambush with Henry atte Bridge that evening, awaiting my return from Witney. I knew it was he to whom Henry had cried, “He lives.” And I knew the arrows Kellet had intended for me, should I return while ’twas still light enough for their use, had been turned on his companion. The priest surely feared then that I would know ’twas Henry atte Bridge who attacked me, and when pressed, Henry would confess the truth and tell of Kellet’s role in the blackmail which existed in the town, which none had suspected. I suspected all this, but the priest spoke true. I could not prove it.

  It was grown light enough that when Thomas atte Bridge twitched at our feet the movement caught our eyes. The beadle had wrapped the rope about his waist and tied it there. I told him to undo it and tie Thomas’ hands behind his back with it and take the fellow to the castle. The cell there had not been used since I came to the town two years before. It would have an inhabitant now.

  I demanded of John Kellet that he accompany me to Thomas de Bowlegh’s vicarage. This he was reluctant to do. The priest turned from me to return to the chapel. His cowl presented the most convenient handle to prevent this. I grasped it and twisted the wool tight about his thick neck.

  “The sack,” I demanded. “Where is it?”

  “S…s…sack?” he spluttered.

  “The one Thomas brought this night. Where is it?” I twisted the cowl tighter.

  “The porch,” Kellet gasped.

  I shoved him before me toward the porch and he pointed out the corner where it lay. I released my hold on Kellet’s cowl, withdrew the sack from its shadowed corner, and emptied it. In the morning light a haunch of venison – no coney – fell out onto the grass of the churchyard.

  “Did Thomas set snares for this, or is he accomplished with a bow and arrows…as you are?”

  The priest did not reply. I returned the venison to the sack and motioned Kellet to the gate. Perhaps he feared I might again attempt to strangle him. He set out promptly.

  The spire of St Beornwald’s Church glowed golden in the rising sun as we approached Bampton. Most of this journey was accomplished in silence, but for the wheezing of the fat priest. But as we came to Bushey Row a question occurred to me.

  “What business had Thomas in Alvescot that he would knock me in the head and wish me dead rather than have me know of it?”

  Kellet made no reply. He was unaccustomed, I think, to walking so fast. His only sound was to gasp for breath.

  “I thought I trailed a poacher,” I continued, “but it seems odd to me that Thomas went to the town rather than the forest around it. ’Twas near midnight.”

  Kellet held his silence. This one-sided conversation was becoming tiresome. “Poachers do business in the forest, not in a village. What business had Thomas at midnight in Alvescot?”

  “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 tr
encher 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.

  Chapter 17

  The 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.