by Mel Starr
Thomas heard us approach. His face appeared at the opening in the door, expecting a crust for his breakfast, I think. He had a crust the day before, and would receive another after this day’s dinner. With such he must be content. I had little sympathy for a man who thought he had slain me and would have buried me, unknown and ungrieved, in unconsecrated ground outside St Andrew’s Chapel churchyard wall.
Uctred lifted the timbers which secured the door and swung it open on protesting hinges. Hinges always seem to squeal in protest when required to perform their appointed work. Like some men. Thomas atte Bridge glowered at me through the open door. I glowered back. I had been Lord Gilbert’s bailiff for nearly two years. In that time I had learned the potency of a practiced scowl. I stepped through the open door and was gratified to see atte Bridge retreat and cast his eyes to the hard-packed earth at his feet. The opening skirmish in this battle was won.
“John Kellet,” I began, “is in the hands of the vicars of St Beornwald’s Church. No doubt the bishop’s court will see to this business and I will be called to testify. Will you have me learn of your crimes from the priest, or will you tell me?”
Thomas stood silent before me, clenching and releasing his fists, considering his options, which were few. It must be a family inheritance, for Henry clenched his fists when pressed in much the same way.
“Ain’t no poacher,” he finally muttered.
“The venison in the sack you would have given to John Kellet was surely Lord Gilbert’s deer. I think I followed you to Alvescot three weeks past, where you gave me a blow from behind the churchyard wall. You were seeing to your snares, I think.”
“Never set no snares,” Thomas replied. I watched the muscles of his jaw twitch as he spoke.
“You used bow and arrows? In the dark?” I found this dubious. The man I followed to Alvescot carried no bow.
“Never kilt none o’ Lord Gilbert’s deer, w’snare or arrows.”
“Ah…but you do not deny whacking me across the head. And you would have made of me a corpse at St Andrew’s Chapel. You had a haunch of venison there, and a sack. The same sack as at Alvescot, I’d guess. You wished me dead to hide something, but not poaching?” I scoffed.
Thomas had been inspecting his feet during this conversation. But now he looked up, first at me, then to the door, where Uctred stood frowning, then to the walls of his cell, and then back to me. He would have glowered again, I think, but to do so requires some confidence and his was melting away like an April snowfall. He was trapped, and he knew it.
“You and your brother took meat to John Kellet. And late at night, so none would know. Fair dealings may be done in the day. Only mischief need be done in the dark.”
The logic of this remark seemed to strike home. Thomas looked down and studied the ground at his feet again.
“You sought to pay Kellet for some service, I think. A debt. To save his own skin he’ll tell the bishop’s men a tale to benefit him, not you. He will surely lay blame at your feet where he can. You will already be charged with poaching and venturing murder. What new indictment will come when John Kellet absolves himself of guilt?”
Atte Bridge did not respond for a moment. He was thinking. I assume. Thinking was an exercise Thomas atte Bridge tended to avoid. Doing so now was surely a new experience. Anything done for the first time will likely be done slowly. I gave him time to ponder his options. When he finally spoke several riddles were explained.
“’Twas Walter killed the deer. Not me.”
“Walter?” I scratched my head, trying to match the name with a face. I did, to my vexation.
“The verderer’s son?”
“Aye.”
“Did Gerard know of this?”
“Nay…don’t think so. I was always t’come late for my share.”
“Your share? Why should Walter bestow his ill-got venison on you?”
Thomas stared again at the walls of his cell for a moment, wondering, I think, should he say more. I thought I could guess the answer, but better it come from Thomas than from me.
“Blackmailed ’im,” he finally muttered.
“You learned of his poaching Lord Gilbert’s deer? He who was to protect the forest against such a thing? How? Did you hear rumor and follow him about?”
More silence followed, and another question came to me: “And what had the curate to do with this that you would give him a portion of venison?”
“Confession,” he whispered.
“Confession? You confessed this sin to Kellet and he demanded a share as penance?” I was incredulous.
“Nay,” Thomas spat. “Might be as ’ow that’s what ’e’ll say, but ’twas ’is plan from t’first.”
“Then what had confession to do with this?”
“Walter confessed to Kellet,” Thomas admitted. “Walter didn’t want to confess to the priest at Alvescot. Kellet an’ Henry was old friends. The priest told me brother to blackmail Walter for some of the meat, an’ they’d share. Henry went to Walter an’ told ’im ’e knew of ’is poachin’ Lord Gilbert’s deer. Didn’t tell ’im ’ow, ’course. Told ’im ’e’d seen ’im in the forest, huntin’. Told Walter ’e’d keep quiet ’bout it did Walter give ’im some of what ’e took.”
“And some of Henry’s portion went to Kellet?”
“Aye.”
I took a moment to digest this. Kellet had violated his vows, breaking the seal of the confessional. Was blackmail a worse crime than this?
“When Henry died…what then?”
“Kellet come t’me. Told me what ’e an’ Henry was about. I wondered ’ow Henry got so prosperous, like,” Thomas muttered.
“He had iron hinges for his door, and an iron spade,” I commented.
“Aye,” Thomas mumbled.
“Henry blackmailed Edmund also?”
“Aye.”
I knew what Edmund must have confessed to Kellet. No wonder then that the smith thought his dalliance with the baker’s wife too costly. He had been paying a high price for Henry’s silence.
“Have you sought goods of the smith?”
“Aye,” he grimaced. “Threw me out, ’e did.”
“His sin is known. He has no need to pay to keep it from me or any other. I saw Emma in dispute with Andrew Miller. Next day I saw her leave the mill with a sack. Did Henry blackmail the miller, also?”
“Aye. Andrew confessed givin’ short weight.”
Why a miller would think himself in danger should this news be about I do not know. All know millers do such a thing. Indeed, they consider such taking a part of their fee. Although Lord Gilbert is perhaps more strict about the conduct of his demesne tenants than most nobles. Andrew must have thought an occasional gift to Henry atte Bridge a small price to pay to keep the man silent.
While I thought on these things Thomas looked up and spoke. “Did John Kellet slay me brother?”
“He did.”
“All ’cause o’ them shoes?”
“Aye. Greed will destroy a man…eventually. Had Alan yet worn shoes when we found him in the hedgerow I might have been satisfied that a wolf caused the beadle’s death. When Henry and John feared that I would seek out Henry and demand of him what he knew of Alan’s death, they determined to waylay me along the north road. But your brother failed to kill me, so John Kellet killed him, rather than me, to silence him. So I believe.”
“That fat priest should die,” Thomas spat.
“For killing a man who would have killed me? As you would have. Two brothers much alike.”
“But we didn’t.”
“Not for lack of effort or desire.”
“What will t’ bishop do with ’im?”
“The church executes no one. And I cannot prove he murdered your brother…nor can any man, I think.”
“’E’ll go free, then?”
“Not after what you’ve told me. The bishop’s court will demand penance, and when he completes that, he’ll be made a servant at some monastery, I’d guess.”
<
br /> Thomas turned from me to face the wall. I heard him mutter imprecations against the church for allowing a murderer to escape hanging. Of course, he had escaped hanging only because he had not laid his cudgel a third time across my yet tender head. Or perhaps not. He might have got away with it. And surely Henry deserved hanging. But Thomas thought only of himself and the injuries done to him. He did not consider the wounds he gave others. But for the Spirit of God in some we are all much the same.
I turned to leave the cell. I had the knowledge I had come for. Uctred pulled the door closed behind me. As it slammed shut Thomas cried out.
“Wait…what will you do with me?”
“A jury of presentment will consider your crimes. You will be tried at hallmote, I think.”
“You will leave me here ’til Michaelmas?” he shouted through the opening in the door.
“’Twas your choice to deal with a poacher and lay blows across my head. And you will have a companion soon enough.”
Uctred dropped the beams through the iron fittings and across the door. A shadowed nose and eye pressed against the hole as we turned and climbed the steps to sunlight and fresh air.
I sent the porter’s assistant to Alvescot with a message for Gerard that I wished to see him and his sons immediately. No one wishes to receive such a notice from a lord’s bailiff. Gerard, whose conscience, so far as I knew, was unmarred, would be concerned. Walter would worry with each step which brought him to Bampton Castle. If he had a conscience. A little worry can be a good thing. Although in Walter’s case worry before he poached Lord Gilbert’s deer would have served better than worry after.
Gerard and his sons arrived just before dinner. I decided to let them wait while I took my meal, so directed the porter’s assistant to assign them to an anteroom off the gatehouse until I should call for them. Another hour or so of apprehension would do Walter no harm.
Dinner this day was the usual three removes, and more elaborate than many. The cook, I think, was practicing for Lord Gilbert’s return to Bampton now little more than a fortnight away.
For the first remove there was Vyaund cyprys, boiled duck, and currant tarts. The second remove featured a roasted kid, stuffed partridge, and a custard. Grooms, of course, received of the second course only the custard. Since the Sumptuary Laws of 1363 they are permitted but one meal of meat or fish each day.
For the third remove there was fried pigeon and coney and for the subtlety a Lombardy custard. My belly was well filled and I was content with the world. Perhaps my interrogation of Walter Forester would have been sharper and more effective had I been hungry.
I found Richard and Walter yawning and scratching themselves on a bench in the gatehouse anteroom. Vermin, no doubt. Their father snored peacefully, propped against the opposite wall of the small room, on the other bench.
The verderer’s sons leaped to their feet as I entered. Their bench banged off the wall behind them and awakened Gerard. The old man snorted, blinked, and stood also when his rheumy eyes fixed on my shadow in the doorway.
I stared silently from Gerard to his sons for several heartbeats. I wished them to know from the outset that their presence at the castle was about no ordinary business. I would allow them time to imagine what business it might be.
Gerard was puzzled. But his face betrayed no guilt. I was relieved. Had he seemed defensive or addressed me quickly on some trivial matter I would have suspected otherwise.
“You summoned us, an’ ’ere we are,” the old forester said. He was tottery from his nap, and swayed on his feet as he spoke. “Somethin’ amiss w’ the timbers?”
That explained the verderer’s brow, which was beginning to fold into worry lines.
“Nay. They serve well. Lord Gilbert’s new stables are nearly ready for his return. ’Tis another matter we must speak of.”
But I did not speak of this other matter immediately. I waited, looking from father to sons. ’Twas Walter who looked away first. When he did so I felt ready to broach the matter at hand.
“Two days past a man of the Weald was found with a joint of venison in his sack.”
“A poacher!” Gerard cried. “In my…I mean, Lord Gilbert’s forest?”
“Aye. So ’twould seem.”
“Who is the fellow?” Richard asked.
“He is called Thomas atte Bridge…but he claims he is not a poacher.”
“How then did ’e come by venison?” Gerard fumed. Walter remained silent, looking from his father to me and back again.
“Blackmail. Claims he learned of the poacher’s work and threatened to expose the man did he not share the spoil.”
“Is this poacher known?” Gerard seethed.
“Aye, to me…and to you.”
“Nay,” the old man protested.
“Oh, he is not known to you as a poacher, but you do know of him.”
“Who is’t?” Richard demanded.
I was not required to answer. Walter bolted past me through the door and disappeared into the gatehouse. Gerard and Richard were too stunned to do anything but blink wide-eyed at me and each other, but I recovered my wits and shouted through the door for Wilfred to stop the fleeing Walter.
I was too late. I flung myself to the door but Richard arrived there first. Wilfred stood agape as we scrambled from the anteroom. I ran under the portcullis just in time to see Walter dodging through the castle forecourt and those who had business there.
I hesitated, but Richard did not. His flying feet raised puffs of dust as he pursued his brother. Gerard stumbled up beside me and we watched as Walter fled west on Mill Street toward the forest and Alvescot. I recovered my wits and shouted for Wilfred and his assistant to give chase also. Soon four men were pounding down Mill Street between meadow and plowland toward the wood. Walter disappeared into the forest with Richard but a few strides behind.
Gerard set off across the forecourt as rapidly as he could. His limp was pronounced when he hurried. Before Gerard reached Mill Street the sound of distant shouting and conflict came from the forest. At that moment Wilfred and his assistant vanished into the trees. And then the sound of struggle ceased. Silence filled the forecourt as those who had business there and at the castle looked from me to the forest and back. The only sound was Gerard’s dragging left foot as he hobbled toward Mill Street.
As the verderer reached the street four figures emerged on the road from the wood. Richard had a firm grasp on his brother’s right arm, which even from 300 or so paces I could see he had twisted high behind Walter’s back. Wilfred marched along on Walter’s left, one hand at the malefactor’s collar, the other grasping his left arm. Wilfred’s assistant strode behind the three. In his hands he carried a downed limb which he waved threateningly over Walter’s bowed head.
Gerard approached his son and as I watched, without breaking his halting stride, he swung his right fist firmly against Walter’s jaw. I could not hear the blow strike, but saw its result clear enough. The old verderer might have a weakness in his left arm, but there was no fault in his right hand. And many years of swinging axe and adze had toughened the man. Walter dropped to his knees like a poleaxed ox. Had not Wilfred and Richard held him aright I think the blow would have laid Walter face down in the road.
Richard released Walter’s arm, leaving Wilfred to help Walter regain his feet. I was too far away to hear, but wild gesticulation indicated that Richard and his father were in animate conversation. I think Gerard would have thumped Walter again had not Richard placed himself between the two.
This lively discourse seemed eventually to cool. Gerard stomped off toward the castle and Richard once again took his brother’s arm. Walter seemed sufficiently recovered to put a foot in front of another. Slowly the party set off for the castle in Gerard’s wake. As they drew near I saw a trickle of blood at the corner of Walter’s mouth. I wondered if the punishment meted to him at hallmote would equal that he would receive from his father.
Gerard was surely frantic that, because of his son, he wo
uld lose his place as Lord Gilbert’s verderer. And perhaps he should have given better oversight to forest and family. But he had, so far as I knew, always done faithful service to Lord Gilbert. That would surely weigh in his favor. Lord Gilbert would return to Bampton in a fortnight. Gerard’s future would be his decision, not mine.
Uctred and the porter’s assistant dragged Walter off to join Thomas in his cell, while Gerard apologized noisily for his son’s behavior. I thought the man might throw himself on the ground and kiss my feet, so voluble were his protests of innocence and regret.
I was eventually able to convince the verderer that I held no grudge against him or Richard. With somewhat dazed expressions on their faces, they went home.
Thomas and Walter enjoyed one another’s company in the dungeon for two months, until Michaelmas. At hallmote they were fined six pence each for poaching Lord Gilbert’s deer. There were, I feel certain, men on the jury who felt some sympathy for them, and who would, perhaps, have taken a deer or two themselves had they thought they might escape discovery.
But for Thomas’ blows against my skull there was less sympathy. He was fined an additional six pence and required to provide another to pledge for him until it was paid. To me. So I received two pence for each lump on my head. Not a bargain I wish to repeat. And he was made to stand in the stocks at the edge of the marketplace for a day while children laughed at him and adolescents threw rubbish when they thought no one would see. And sometimes when others did see.
John Kellet lost his place at St Andrew’s Chapel. ’Twas as I suspected: he was sent on pilgrimage, to Compostella, there to seek absolution. The bishop demanded of him that he leave the realm with no coin, and live as a mendicant while on pilgrimage. He has not yet returned. When he does he is to retire to the Priory of St Nicholas in Exeter, there to live out his days as servant to the Almoner. The pilgrimage to Spain is long and surely difficult. Perhaps he will not survive the journey. One who so betrays his vocation surely deserves whatever evil may befall him.
Thomas de Bowlegh has assured me that the Prior of St Nicholas is a stern man. Good. If the walk to Spain does not thin the fat priest, perhaps life in the priory will.
