by Mel Starr
“There were such footprints in the mud at Cow-Leys Corner,” I said. “Some barefoot man trod the road and stood under the limb where Thomas atte Bridge was found.”
“Many poor folk save their shoes and go about barefoot when the weather warms,” Father Simon asserted.
This was so. I tried to recall the day atte Bridge was found. Of all the throng gathered at Cow-Leys Corner, did any go about bare of foot? I could not remember. There were other matters clogging my thoughts that day.
“Father Simon’s returned cord leaves us, I think, with a serious question,” Father Thomas said. “Was the cord taken by a murderer, or an accomplice in suicide? Master Hugh, you believe a murderer, is this not so?”
“Aye.”
“And you?” The priest turned to his associates.
“It may be as Master Hugh says,” Father Simon offered. “But I know his mind. He believes John Kellet guilty of a felony, and will seek evidence to prove it so. It cannot be. Kellet is not the man we knew of days past. Master Hugh remembers him only as he was.”
“When he did slay Henry atte Bridge,” Father Ralph continued the thought, “and would have aided Thomas atte Bridge in doing murder to Master Hugh. Will a leopard change his spots? Master Hugh must travel to Exeter and seek Prior Richard. He must be told of Master Hugh’s suspicion and John Kellet must be examined closely.”
I greeted this recommendation with mixed feelings. I had convinced myself that John Kellet was guilty of Thomas atte Bridge’s murder, and had some evidence it was so. Pilgrimage to Compostela was small penance to pay for his previous crimes, and did I not seek him and truth at St Nicholas’s Priory he would escape retribution for this new felony. But I had no wish to travel to Exeter, even at a season when the weather was benign and the roads dry.
“Perhaps,” I said, “a letter might be sent to the prior. He and the almoner, if told of this business, might query Kellet about his hours in Bampton.”
“If he answers falsely,” Father Ralph replied, “how will Prior Richard know? Kellet has served the priory for but a few days. His character is unknown there. No, a letter will not serve. You, who know Kellet and might press him if he dissembles, you must go.”
“Such a journey will be a waste of Master Hugh’s time,” Father Simon said heatedly. “Kellet is a new man. He lives now as a penitential and mendicant. Why would he do some new felony for which he must do even greater penance?”
Father Ralph and Father Simon scowled at each other, then looked to Father Thomas, each seeking support for his opinion.
“Pilgrimage and penance may indeed change a man. I hope for John Kellet’s soul it did. But you, Master Hugh, will not be convinced it is so unless you travel to Exeter and seek him. If he is yet iniquitous you may be able to discern it. Is he not, that also may be plain. If you assume his guilt in the matter of Thomas atte Bridge, you will not seek another. Then whoso did murder atte Bridge, did Kellet not, will escape punishment for his felony, in this world, if not the next. Father Ralph speaks true. You must go to Exeter, to put your own mind at ease, if for no other reason.”
There was little more to say of the matter. If I did not go to Exeter, when Lord Gilbert returned at Lammastide and I had found no murderer in Bampton, my employer might be unhappy. Thomas atte Bridge was not his tenant, but died upon his land. Lord Gilbert would not be pleased to find me slothful in my duties. And if John Kellet was guilty, as I thought likely, I would not prove it so from Bampton while he served St Nicholas’s Priory.
I left the priests standing before the vicarage and sought Galen House. Kate’s face appeared in my mind, and you will understand why I was loath to travel to Exeter. At best the journey would take five days, and five more to return. I had not been out of Kate’s presence since the day we wed. The vicars of St Beornwald’s Church now required of me a fortnight away from my bride.
Kate was displeased by the vicars’ decision, and spoke of accompanying me. I rejected the suggestion. I admit that the thought of leaving with her beside me, instead of leaving her behind, was a tempting one. But she was with child, and should rest at home.
“Of all those in Bampton who disliked Thomas atte Bridge, you believe John Kellet most likely his murderer?” she asked.
“Aye. He had cause and opportunity, and the deed fits his character.”
“Did not others have greater cause? Peter Carpenter, surely?”
“Men may have great cause to do violence to another, but not act on it because they have not the stomach for it, or because they will not do wrong to right a wrong.”
“And this Kellet would act?”
“Aye. He has done so, many times. I had lumps upon my head to prove it so.”
“You spoke of two men, one at atte Bridge’s head and the other at his feet, dropping his burden to the mud.”
“Kellet did not do this alone. But who might have aided him? Atte Bridge had so many enemies I know not where to begin to sort through them all.”
“The man would have been a friend to John Kellet before he was sent on pilgrimage, would he not? It seems unlikely,” Kate mused, “that Kellet would return to Bampton and seek aid to do murder from one he did not know well.”
I could not dispute her logic. To seek an accomplice among John Kellet’s friends might narrow the list of conspirators. But how could I discover guilt without some proof to lay at such a man’s feet, so that he might speak to charge the priest and turn justice from himself? Unwilling as I was to leave Kate for a fortnight, I was beginning to see the use of such a journey and found myself arguing Father Thomas’s position to Kate. After much persuasion, she reluctantly agreed.
“When will you depart?”
“Tuesday. I will make ready tomorrow.”
“You will not go upon the roads alone, will you?”
“Nay. I will have Arthur and Uctred accompany me.”
I saw relief wash across my bride’s face. Since the Great Death men who seek employment are able to find it, so there are fewer brigands accosting folk upon the roads than in past days. But there are always some who would rather take what is another’s than earn their own keep. Arthur and Uctred are large fellows, not tall, but well fed at Lord Gilbert’s table, and seeing them garbed in Lord Gilbert’s blue-and-black livery with his design across their chests, most felons would choose to allow them, and me, to pass unmolested.
Monday morning I sought Arthur and Uctred and told them to make ready to leave next day with the Angelus Bell. Uctred is a bachelor and Arthur a married man. I expected Uctred to be eager for the journey and the novelty of new lands to see, and thought Arthur would be unhappy to leave Bampton. I was mistaken. Uctred greeted the announcement with gloom, whereas Arthur seemed pleased to be away. Perhaps wedded bliss had faded for Arthur.
I left instruction with the marshalsea to have Bruce and two palfreys ready to travel with the dawn. Bruce is an old dexter and carried Lord Gilbert at Poitiers. His use was provided me as incentive when Lord Gilbert prevailed upon me to accept the post of bailiff at his Manor of Bampton. I hoped the elderly beast was hale enough to travel to Devonshire and return.
Chapter 7
Early next morn I threw a bag of my surgical instruments across Bruce’s rump, and a moment later Arthur, Uctred, and I urged our mounts under the Bampton Castle portcullis. I planned no surgery in the next fortnight, but I have been so often surprised by the injuries men may do to themselves and each other that I dislike being without the tools to repair their hurts. Kate was determined to see us off, so came with me to the castle while the eastern sky was just beginning to grow light above St Andrew’s Chapel. I turned in my saddle when we three gained Mill Street and was rewarded with a kiss blown from Kate’s fair lips. I was determined to see my business in Exeter complete and be on my way home so soon as could be.
From Bampton to Swindon is nineteen miles. We traveled the distance easily, for the horses were rested, and sought an inn for the night. The second day we traveled longer, near thirty miles,
to Trowbridge, where we found another vermin-infested inn. I wished to be in Glastonbury after three days, and near the seventh hour of the third day we saw the tor rise above the plain.
I have heard many tales of the great abbey at Glastonbury: of the graves of Arthur and Guinevere, his queen; of the thorn tree planted by Joseph of Arimathea; and of the magnificent view from the top of the tor. After three days’ travel our elderly beasts were tired and lagging. I decided we would rest the horses for a day and see the great abbey and its treasures.
The gatehouse of Glastonbury Abbey is new and impressive, built but a few years past. The porter greeted us there, and sent a lay brother to fetch the hosteller when I made known our need of shelter for two nights and provision for the horses.
We were not alone in such a request. Pilgrims swarmed through the gatehouse while we awaited the hosteller, for we had arrived on Ascension Day. All these folk could not be accommodated within the abbey precincts, or if they were, there would be no place for three more travelers.
The porter’s assistant returned shortly, pushing through the throng of pilgrims. A slender monk followed in his wake. I saw the monk squint over the crowd at our horses, then peer past the swirling swarm at the gatehouse to see who it was required his aid. His eyes drifted past me without focusing. Here, I thought, is a scholar whose long hours of study, bent over his books, have rendered him blind to anything much past his fingertips.
The monk stood close before the porter, who took his arm and turned him to face me. At that close vantage I saw clearly the monk’s affliction. The pupils of his eyes were milky and clouded. He suffered from cataracts.
“Brother Alnett,” the porter said, “here are three fellows bound for St Nicholas’s Priory in Exeter who need place to rest themselves and their beasts.”
“I am Hugh de Singleton,” I added, “bailiff to Lord Gilbert Talbot on his lands in Bampton. I travel to Exeter to examine a man about a death in Bampton. Arthur and Uctred accompany me.”
Brother Alnett seemed to look away, but addressed me, as if by inspecting the gatehouse beyond my shoulder he could see me the better.
“We have many pilgrims here, and cannot house them all, but travelers are welcome. I will send for a lay brother to care for your beasts. Meanwhile, follow me and I will see you to the guest hall.”
The monk led us past the abbot’s hall and a great kitchen, where a chimney belched the smoke and fragrance of roasting flesh. Glastonbury is a Benedictine House, but I suppose the abbot had guests who required meat for their supper. Beyond the kitchen was a garden to the south and the abbot’s hall to the north. On the eastern side of the garden lay a long structure, two stories tall, of dressed stone and newly built. The monk led us to the entrance of this hall.
Once we were inside the darkened corridors of the building Brother Alnett led us to our chamber as surely as if he could see clearly. I remarked on this to the monk.
“Near thirty years since I was a novice. I learned my way about the place when I could yet see well,” he explained. “Now I see in my mind’s eye what was when I was young.” He hesitated briefly. “So I see what others see, just not in the same manner. But I do wish I might yet read. Those who can see and do not read are more blind than me, I think.”
“Is there no surgeon in Glastonbury who can couch your cataracts?”
“Nay. Brother Jerome is an herbalist of great wisdom, but he knows little of surgery, and even did he possess such skill, his hand now trembles with age. A year and more past a traveling surgeon visited Glastonbury. The man claimed competence in couching cataracts. I thought to seek him, but he departed the town but a few days after he arrived. His treatment of a town alderman failed.”
“Failed?”
“Aye. Went blind in the eye the fellow couched.”
“What then?”
“Gone next day, when it was known about the town what happened. Of course, when a man has cataracts so cloudy as mine, he is blind already, so it matters little whether the surgery succeed or not.”
“You would have sought relief from this surgeon even after his failure?”
“Aye. A woman of the town also went to him and she is pleased. Can’t see so well as when she was a lass, but better than if a shroud was hung always before her face.”
“Master Hugh be a surgeon,” Arthur said. He and Uctred had followed the conversation and as I had not told the monk of my training, Arthur decided it was his duty to make it known.
The monk turned to me, although was it his intent to study me for evidence of competence, the effort surely failed. The chamber was on the east side of the guest range, facing a yard which was enclosed by the dorter and refectory. Little light entered the space, even though the window was of glass. The darkness and his cataracts surely rendered Brother Alnett blind in such a place. Perhaps he turned to me of custom, behavior learned when he could yet see clearly, as an old man will turn to watch a winsome maid pass by, though the exercise will bring him scant satisfaction.
“A surgeon? I thought you were a bailiff.”
“I am both. An odd combination, I know, but ’tis so.”
“Do you treat men such as me for cataracts?”
“I have never done so. Such work was part of my training in Paris, but I’ve had no opportunity to practice the skill.”
“Paris? You trained in Paris?”
“For but one year. I lacked coin for further study.”
“The university there is renowned for training men who repair another’s broken body. I have heard much of the new methods taught there. Tell me, do you practice in the manner of de Chauliac or de Mondeville?”
“De Mondeville… although de Chauliac has much to teach us of mending human flaws and injuries.”
“But you have never couched a cataract?”
“Never. I observed surgeons at the university as they worked the remedy, that is all.”
“I cannot leave the abbey to seek treatment,” the monk sighed, “and no surgeon able to succor my affliction is likely again to visit. When the wandering surgeon appeared I thought ’twas an answer to my prayers… but not so.”
“Master Hugh will fix most any hurt a man can have,” Arthur claimed. “Seen ’im put a man’s skull back together after the fellow had an oak tree drop on ’is head. Well… I didn’t actually see ’im do it, you understand, but I see the fellow up an walkin’ about regular like, him bein’ Lord Gilbert’s verderer.”
Brother Alnett made no reply, but looked away into the dim corners of the chamber, as if there was some object there which required his study.
“I don’t know when another itinerant surgeon will visit Glastonbury. I am not a youth. I fear I will go to my grave blinded, never again to read a book or watch a goldfinch flit about the abbey orchard.”
I was cautious of my ability in dealing with cataracts, but Arthur felt no such reticence, as he was neither the sufferer nor the untried surgeon.
“No need to await another,” he said confidently. “Master Hugh can fix you up proper as any man can.”
“It would be a blessing can you do so,” the monk replied.
“Even when couching for cataracts is successful,” I warned, “vision is often poor.”
“Ah,” Brother Alnett smiled, “I do not wish to be twenty years of age again. But to read once more… I yearn for that. And Brother Andrew wears upon his nose the bits of glass and brass which allow an old man to read like a youth. If you can remove the veil from my eyes, I will seek such an aid for myself.”
I did not reply for a moment. I had come to Glastonbury Abbey seeking rest, not labor. And I feared that the work asked of me was beyond my competence. I saw couching done twice while in Paris, near four years past, but had never put my hand to the work. If I should attempt the business and succeed, I might bring much pleasure to Brother Alnett, but should I fail, I would lay much distress upon him.
I told him this. When I had finished my warning the monk was silent for a time, then spoke: “One
eye, then… the worst. Work your craft upon my left eye, for that is cloudiest. Then, if you fail, I will be no more blind in my left eye than I am now. But if you succeed, then the reward will be worth the risk, and you may couch my other eye when you will.”
From the corner of my eye I saw Arthur and Uctred grinning broadly at me, as if the surgery were already complete and successful. It is a good thing when others have confidence in my skill, but not so when their expectation is beyond my competence. I feared this was such a time. I thought of an escape.
“Will the abbot approve? Will he accept an unknown surgeon poking about the eye of one of his brothers?”
“We will seek him and ask,” Brother Alnett said, and turned to the chamber door as he spoke. “Your companions may wait here for our return. Master Hugh, come with me.”
Brother Alnett found the stairs and descended with no hesitation. In the dark passageway I was uncertain when my feet might find the last step, but not so the monk. He did not stumble upon his way, but strode firmly to the door, reached unerringly for the latch, and lifted it for our passage.
The abbot’s lodge at Glastonbury is grand, as befits the head of one of the richest houses in the realm, second only to Westminster in its lands and tithes. I did pause to wonder, though, how men who had taken vows of poverty could live so well. In my youth, while yet a scholar at Balliol College, I asked this of a monk, a Benedictine. He replied that the wealth of a monastery belonged to God, not the brothers who inhabited the place. As God had no need of gold and jewels and rich tapestries, his servants felt free to use them. Cistercians take a different view.
The monks had but a short time earlier completed nones, so we arrived at the abbot’s hall as he and the prior approached from the direction of the church.
Brother Alnett heard their approach, guessed who it was, bowed respectfully, and introduced me to the abbot, Walter de Moynyngton. The abbot is a severe, thin-faced, somber-appearing fellow, and greeted me with a scowl. I did not take this personally. He seemed to me a man who received all in the same manner.
