Unhallowed Ground (10 page)

“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.

T
hree 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 did 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.”

“’At’s right.”

“And you said this happened the night of St George’s Day?”

“Aye. We was abed when Thomas ’eard the ruckus.”

“Are you sure this did not happen the night before St George’s Day as well?”

“Well, it did so then, aye. ’Twas two nights the hens was vexed. ’E was found dead after second time… day after St George’s Day. ’Ow’d you know that? Thomas come back first time. Said as how he’d run off a fox. ’At’s why he thought the beast come back next night.”

I was about to tell Maud there was no fox, at least not the first time her hens were troubled, but chose to hold my tongue. Maud was no adversary in the business, but her wagging tongue might reach a man who was.

I thanked Maud for her time and left her scratching her head before her hut. She was puzzled that I knew that Thomas had visited his toft twice, when she had not told me of the first event. She was not stupid. She would soon deduce that some other person knew of her disturbed hens, and this person had told me of it. She would want to know who this might be, assuming the man, for a man it would surely be upon the streets late at night, would know who had slain her husband. Indeed, the fellow might be the culprit. I expected her to call at Galen House before the day was done.

Kate believes that a man must have no secrets from his wife. Whether the opposite is true I know not. When I returned to Galen House she placed her needle and fabric upon our table and asked of Maud and of my visit.

I had told Kate little of John Kellet, so drew a bench aside her chair and related my conversation with the man. I told her of his nocturnal visit to atte Bridge’s toft the night before St George’s Day, and his claim to have seen the corpse suspended at Cow-Leys Corner before dawn as he departed Bampton.

“You believe he spoke true?” Kate asked when I had concluded the tale.

“Aye,” I replied reluctantly.

“Someone heard him, then,” she said. “Someone who plotted against atte Bridge heard, or learned of, John Kellet’s late visit and used the same deception to draw him from his house.”

“So it seems.”

“Was it then Arnulf Mannyng who slew Thomas? He lives in the Weald, but a few doors from Maud. He might have heard the hens from his house, and thought to see were his own fowls endangered. When he saw how readily atte Bridge might be drawn from his house, perhaps he decided to use the same deceit to get him into the dark of night.”

Kate’s solution was plausible, but hardly enough to accuse a man. If Arnulf was the felon I sought, I must find some evidence of it, for I had none.

“Perhaps,” I replied, “some other man Thomas atte Bridge had harmed, Peter Carpenter, mayhap, lay in wait in the dark near Thomas’s hut, seeking some way to draw him forth. While he hid, seeking vengeance, John Kellet appeared, rattling a stick upon the hen coop. When such a man saw how easily Thomas could be persuaded to leave his house, he worked the same ruse next night.”

Kate pursed her lips, perhaps unhappy that I had so swiftly dispensed with her conclusion. But Kate is not one to hold a grudge.

“You think whoso bothered the hens the second night knew of John Kellet doing so the first night, and decided to try the same trick?”

“Aye, upon that we agree. But who it was I cannot guess.”

“I wonder if there might be some way to draw the man out… or the men, as it seems two have done the murder?”

“Perhaps. I will think on it.”

“We will think on it,” Kate smiled, and returned to stitching a new cotehardie. The one she now wore would not serve by autumn, and Kate is a woman who plans ahead.

Edmund Smith, like most who labor at his trade, is a strapping fellow, broad-shouldered and with forearms as large around as the axles under Lady Petronilla’s cart. He is no friend. I caught him out a year past in dalliance with the baker’s wife, when he was caught up in the plot between Kellet and the two atte Bridge brothers. I had stopped the blackmail against Edmund, but also ended his dissolute behavior with the baker’s wife. For this he did not thank me.

Edmund’s forge is upon Bridge Street, near to the marketplace. After a dinner of pease pottage improved by the remains of yesterday’s capon, I set out to visit the smith. I knew of no recent conflict between Thomas atte Bridge and Edmund, but the smith seemed to me a man capable of nursing a grudge. He also seemed an impetuous sort. Would he nurse his wrath for a year before striking down a foe?

I found the forge cold. Edmund was not at his work this day. I set my feet once again to the Weald and found the smith at Emma’s hut, repairing the door. This door swung on hinges Edmund had made, then given to Henry atte Bridge to purchase his silence in the matter of the baker’s wife. Edmund looked over his shoulder as I approached, then bent again to his task.

“I am told congratulations are due,” I began.

“Why must you be told of it?” he replied sharply.

“I have been away a fortnight on Lord Gilbert’s business. Do you make your home here now?”

The smith had lived alone in a crude shed behind his forge.

“Aye. Can dwell where I like… I’m a free tenant, as you well know.”

“Surely, so long as the vicars of the Church of St Beornwald agree. Emma is tenant of the Bishop of Exeter, and whoso lives with her comes under their authority as his agents.”

“Emma needed a man about the place. Couldn’t pay ’er rent. Vicars don’t care does she wed or not, so long as the bishop gets ’is coin.”

“Hmmm. And now Maud is facing like misfortune.”

“We all got troubles. Maud’ll have to do as best she can. No concern of mine.”

“Did Thomas atte Bridge’s death please you?”

Edmund looked away from his work and studied my face. “I ’eard the talk, how some think ’e din’t hang hisself. No matter to me. Did ’e take ’is own life or did another do away with ’im, the town is well rid of ’im.”

I had been standing close enough to the smith that his odor was overwhelming. I doubt the fellow has bathed since I came to Bampton two years past. Whenever I was in his presence the stink was the same. Emma must surely have faced ruin to accept the fellow. I backed away a step to relieve my offended nostrils.

“What does Emma think of such gossip? I saw her in dispute with Maud some weeks past. Does Emma have opinion?”

“Ask ’er,” Edmund shrugged, and returned to his work.

“I will. Where may she be found?”

“In the toft.”

I found Emma and two of her children drawing weeds from a patch of cabbages and onions. She arose from her knees at my approach and brushed a wisp of graying hair back from her brow with the back of her wrist. When her children also looked up from their work she barked at them to continue. This they did with alacrity, glancing to me from the corner of an eye while they toiled.

“You have now a husband to lighten your labors,” I began.

The woman made no reply, as if my assertion was so foolish that no response was required. The stray locks once more dropped across her forehead and she again brushed them back under her hood, then stood with hands on hips and silently awaited what more I might say. A visit from a great lord’s bailiff often draws such a response from folk. Her stance, I think, was due to apprehension, and apprehension due to ignorance. She did not know why I had appeared in her toft, nor what I was about.

“You had a quarrel with Maud some time past, here in the toft,” I said.

“Hot of temper is Maud,” Emma replied.

My experience of the two women was that Emma better fit such a description, but I saw no reason to voice the opinion. “What disturbed her?” I asked.

“Not a matter for Lord Gilbert’s bailiff… we of the Weald sort our troubles with the vicars.”

“And has the quarrel been settled? The vicars have rendered judgment on the issue?”

“Uh, not yet.”

“Have they been asked?”

“The matter is resolved. No need to trouble ’em.”

“And what was the result?”

“Not your bailiwick,” she muttered.

“Maud’s husband died upon Lord Gilbert’s lands. There is some question as to the manner of his death. So when I see his widow in conflict with another, I make it my business. What was your dispute with Maud about?”

“Me an’ Edmund had naught to do with it.”

I thought this a strange response. “I made no such accusation,” I replied. “Why do you fear I might do so?”

“Folk be talkin’. Sayin’ you don’t think Thomas did away with hisself.”