Mel Starr - A Corpse at St Andrew's Chapel

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 suspected 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.

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.