Mel Starr - A Corpse at St Andrew's Chapel

“Aye. War with France meant all who could must learn the use of the longbow. ’Twas not ’til he went to the chapel he was pressed to give it up.”

“He has kept his skill.”

“Aye. An’ he enjoyed that bit of showin’ off, I’d say.”

I had not noticed that during my conversation with Hubert Shillside his son had wandered off. But as I turned to survey the departing archers and spectators (there was practice only this day, no competition; I did not wish to be too free with Lord Gilbert’s purse), I saw the youth approach the gatehouse. Alice atte Bridge stood there, her back against the sun-warmed stones, smiling shyly at his approach.

She could do worse. Much worse. The youth had two sisters only. He would inherit his father’s business as Bampton town’s haberdasher. And I knew Alice well enough to know that Will Shillside could do worse, also. Although whether or not the coroner would agree to his son’s choice was another matter. Alice could bring nothing but herself to such a union. That, for most men of means — and their sons — was not enough.

I supped that evening on cold beef and wheaten bread, then walked the parapet until the last gleam of twilight faded beyond the Ladywell and the forest. I reflected on the day, and whether or not I had learned a thing important to the mysterious death of Henry atte Bridge. Only a man of suspicious nature would think so. John Kellet was skilled with a bow and wore black wool. Was this enough to cause me to suspect him a murderer? And he knew the dead man, for Henry had often, it seems, used his confessional.

But would the fat priest hide along a dark road in company with a man who wished me harm? I had no quarrel with John Kellet. Would he then kill Henry atte Bridge for his failure? This seemed not credible. I put it out of my mind and sought my chamber and bed.

Before he departed Bampton for Goodrich and Pembroke, Lord Gilbert had given instructions for the enlargement of the marshalsea. While he resided at another place the stables at Bampton were quite large enough. But like most of his class he thought himself a connoisseur of horses and never seemed to have enough palfreys for his wife and son, coursers for the hunt, or dexters for the list and war.

Lord Gilbert went to Goodrich for Christmas, as was his custom, then on to Pembroke for St David’s Day. This holy day is observed only in Wales, and Lord Gilbert desires to be present should Welsh enthusiasm get out of hand. He planned to return to Bampton by Lammas Day and expected the enlarged marshalsea to be ready for his return. In early November I had sent to Alvescot for the verderer and told him of the beams I would require. He and his sons were to cut and hew them over the winter and bring them, with sufficient coppiced shoots for wattle, to the castle before Whitsuntide. As Lammas Day was but nine weeks hence I thought it wise to seek the man and assure myself that timbers were cut and shaped and ready for transport to the castle.

Anxiety overtook me as I mounted Bruce and set off through the forest for Alvescot and the forester’s hut. It was not the forest which caused my unease, although the last time I rode Bruce through a wood I was attacked. Rather, I worried that Gerard had been lax and had not prepared the beams, or was just now doing so. I had directed the fellow to cut the trees in the autumn and winter, when they would be dry of sap. If he was just now toppling them he might have the beams hewn and ready by Whitsuntide but they would be green. As they dried they would twist. Lord Gilbert’s new stable wall would not be plumb, nor the roof tree true. Lord Gilbert is a particular man. Even his marshalsea must be orderly though none but horses and grooms dwell therein.

’Twas Rogation Day when I rode out to Alvescot. I knew well the limits of Lord Gilbert’s manor, and saw little need to walk the countryside beating the bounds of Bampton with willow branches. As I approached the hamlet I heard its residents a ganging, marching about the limits of the village behind Walter de Notyngham, the priest. A bell rang incessantly, and small boys yelped as they were bounced off trees and posts and rocks to help them memorize the village limits.

As I entered the village from the east I heard the marchers to the north and saw their banners beyond St Peter’s Church as they trailed priest and cross. A shriek then punctuated the general commotion and as I drew near I saw a youth pulled dripping from the chilly waters of Shill Brook. Doubtless he would not forget that the stream, much reduced here upstream from Bampton, formed the northern boundary of the village.

I tied Bruce to a post of the lych gate and waited by the churchyard wall until the marchers completed the circuit of the village. This did not take long. Alvescot was small before plague struck. Now there were barely a dozen families to serve this forlorn forested fragment of Lord Gilbert’s manor of Bampton.

Alvescot’s inhabitants completed their march around the hamlet and broke apart to attend to their own business. Gerard possessed a cottage near the churchyard and soon I saw him approach, limping slightly, favoring his left leg and foot.

The verderer had walked in such manner since I put his head together nearly two years earlier. He and his sons had been felling an oak in the forest between Alvescot and Bampton. A limb of the tree smashed his pate when he failed to move quickly enough from under the falling tree. He complained also of feebleness in his left arm. Why this should be so I cannot tell, for it was the right side of his skull, just above his ear, which suffered the blow.

I greeted the man, and he smiled warmly, as a man might to another who has saved his life. He guessed the reason for my visit. “You’ve come about beams, eh?”

“Aye. Will they be ready to transport to the castle by Whitsuntide?

“Ready now. Hewed, stacked, an’ dryin’ since Candlemas.”

“Excellent. And how does your head? Are you troubled yet with headaches?”

“Oh, not so much. ’Tis not me head that gives trouble…’tis the weakness in me arm an’ leg.”

“This does not improve?”

“Nay. Same as has been since you patched me up.”

This condition puzzles me. Mondeville wrote nothing about such a phenomenon, nor has any other surgeon so far as I know. That a man might lose some function of his body from a thump on the head is well known, but why the loss would be opposite to the place of injury I cannot guess.

“I’ll send carts to haul the timbers to the castle. How goes Lord Gilbert’s woodland? Did many trees fall over winter?”

“Nay…no but one, an old beech come down just after Twelfth Night. ’Twas too bitter to do aught ’bout it then. But after the Feast o’ St Edward we hewed it to timbers. They be stacked along wi’ the oak, if Lord Gilbert needs more than planned for ’is new stables.”

As we talked we walked across the muddy lane to Gerard’s hut. He led the way to the toft, where in a wood yard behind the house he showed me the pile of oak and beech awaiting transport to Bampton. All was done as required. No fault could be found with the forester’s work, although for the frailty of his left hand and leg I assumed his sons and assistants had done most of the work under his direction.

Beside the beams was a rack of pollarded poles drying under a thatched shelter. Gerard followed my gaze.

“Rafters…got to cut ’em when they’re the right size, or there’ll be no use for ’em. Wait ’til they be needed an’ they’ll be grown too large. I’ll send a stack w’ the beams. No use for ’em here, since plague.”

At the rear of his hut, between the building and the wood yard, I saw a heap of wattles ready also for the new stables. Gerard saw my eyes move to the pile, and spoke. “Cut ’em just three days past, so they’ll be green-like an’ bend easy. Poplar. They’s best for wattle.”