Mel Starr - A Corpse at St Andrew's Chapel

“Nay. Don’t know what he could’ve been about. Didn’t leave road ’til he was past t’wood, then went through the gate an’ into t’chapel yard.”

This was a new and unforeseen thing. Then I remembered that an earlier beadle had gone down this same path some months before. And that man was surely slain by the brother of the man who now walked the lane late at night. Did they travel to the same place? For the same purpose?

“Did Thomas enter the chapel?”

“Aye, think so. Didn’t get close enough t’see, but heard hinges squeal.”

“Was he long in the chapel?”

“Nay. I thought as how he was in t’chapel I’d hurry to t’yard an’ hide behind t’wall. Maybe I’d hear ’im speak to priest. But he was out near as soon as he was in.”

“And where did he then go?”

“Back to town, same way as he come. Only thing is, I think t’sack was empty. Wasn’t enough light to see well, But t’sack is light-colored, like, so if there’s a lump in the bottom a man can see.”

“So on his way to the chapel Thomas carried a sack with something in it, but ’twas empty when he went to his home?”

“Aye. Went straight to the Weald an’ his own hut an’ shut the door. I watched from near the bridge for a while, but he must’ve gone to ’is bed. Never saw ’im again.”

“You have done well…although I admit I have no guess what it is you have discovered.”

The beadle’s thoughts must have paralleled my own. His next words spoke his suspicion and worry. “Alan was found along t’road to chapel. Did he follow another man with a sack that night, you think?”

“I thought ’twas a beast which drew him from town, when he was first found. But ’twas not. I will tell you a thing which you must tell no other, not even your wife. Not yet. Henry atte Bridge slew Alan.”

“You are sure of this?” John replied with surprise. Even in the dim starlight I saw his eyebrows rise.

“Aye. And now Henry’s brother travels the same lane in the dark of night, and the new beadle sees and follows.”

“Would Thomas do to me as Henry did to Alan?”

“He might, did he know what you have seen.”

“So I must speak of this to no one, not even my wife,” John whispered.

“Aye, until I can sort out this business you must appear ignorant of all we have spoken of this night.”

“I am no scholar,” John chuckled. “Seeming ignorant is a thing I can do well. God has granted me the skill.”

“Do not seek to learn more of Thomas atte Bridge. Complete your rounds tomorrow night as if all was as should be. We must not give Thomas cause to suspect us. I will devise some way to learn what the fellow is about.”

I rose next morning at dawn and ate my breakfast loaf before the Angelus Bell tolled the beginning of the new day. I had notified the marshalsea that I would need Bruce this day early. He was saddled and waiting when I reached the stables. I tossed a pouch of herbs and surgical implements across his rump and led the old horse across the castle yard to the gatehouse, where Wilfred was about the business of cranking up the portcullis and swinging open the gate as I approached.

I had looked forward to this day for more than a fortnight. Even a man of little wit will understand why this was so. I never before appreciated how slow Bruce’s ambling gait really was. My purpose was to remove the stitches I had used to seam Robert Caxton’s back. But Bruce would not have seemed so plodding had I not another goal: a meal prepared by and in company with a beautiful lass.

It was well that I had business this day and so could not act on what I learned the night before from John Prudhomme. Bruce’s languorous pace gave opportunity to consider options at leisure as I watched the Oxfordshire countryside pass by. Could there be a greener and more pleasant place for a man to live his days? ’Tis not meet to be boastful of such a thing, for God could have set me in a desert, was that His wish. But He did not. For that I must remember to thank Him each day.

In frustration I finally clucked to the old horse and gave him my heels in his ribs. Bruce responded. He broke into a lumbering gallop and I found myself bouncing from the saddle at frequent and regular intervals. How Lord Gilbert, clad in armor, stayed atop Bruce during a charge I know not.

I tugged at the reins and Bruce slowed to his normal ambling walk. We had covered barely a hundred paces at a gallop. Had I allowed Bruce to continue, I would have arrived at Oxford so jostled and out of joint, I would have been of no use to Robert Caxton and his daughter would have thought me a cretin. I have new regard for knights who gallop into battle on ponderous destriers.

Before Bruce clattered across the Oxpens Road Bridge I was convinced I knew what was in Thomas atte Bridge’s sack. The man was a poacher, I was certain of that. And certainly wrong, as I would soon learn.

In the sack which he used to retrieve his booty from the forest he had taken a rabbit or joint of venison to John Kellet. Why he should do so I could not guess. And did his brother, Henry, embark on a similar mission to St Andrew’s Chapel the night Alan the beadle followed him and was slain? Would a man kill to preserve the secret of a gift? He might, was the gift unlawful. Did the priest of St Andrew’s Chapel know the source of the bounty? How could he not, delivered after curfew as it was, when all virtuous men should be abed?

I left Bruce with the stableboy at the Stag and Hounds and set out through the mid-day throng for Holywell Street and Robert Caxton’s shop. Both door and shutters were open this fine day. Kate greeted me. Her father, she said, was preparing ink in the work room.

The stationer overheard our conversation, for he appeared immediately at the door which separated the two rooms. He raised an ink-stained hand in greeting. “Ah, Master Hugh, we have been expecting you,” Caxton said, and glanced to his daughter. “Kate has been preparing since yesterday.”

I regarded the girl, and was rewarded with a smile. And a faint blush, do I not mistake me.

The stationer’s wound was well healed, and he was strong enough that he, not Kate, helped me haul his ink-stained table into the toft. The day was much warmer than when last I visited the toft, and Caxton had not the same worries he had when last he removed his cotehardie and kirtle in this place. He did not shiver, but lay willingly upon the table for me to begin my work.

The seam along his rib was red, but showed no sign of putrescence. I asked him had it ever done so.

“Nay…but for t’first days.”

“And you feel no pain, as before?”

“’Tis stiff, when I bend to put on a shoe, but not so as ’twas.”

I carefully sliced each stitch and pulled the severed silk from the skin. A few small dots of blood appeared where the threads had been pulled free. I asked Kate for a clean cloth, and wiped away the traces of blood. No more followed.

Caxton stood and stretched, then dressed, and together we dragged the table back to its place in the work room. Kate waited there with a white linen cloth which she proceeded to lay upon the table. Having done so, she transformed it into a dinner table. She then ushered me and her father from the room to the front of the shop. We were told that our meal would be ready shortly.

We had already discussed the stationer’s healing wound. No new depths of that subject remained to be plumbed. The weather was fine, and had been so for many days. Foul weather makes a better subject for conversation than fair when other topics fail. Caxton and I sat on facing benches in a shop empty of customers and waited in awkward silence to be called to our dinner.

The subject uppermost in both our minds was not the impending meal, but the future of the girl who prepared it. The stationer no doubt wondered of each new man in his daughter’s life if he would become the father of his grandchildren. For my part I thought on how I might arrange to visit the shop now that my surgical skill was no longer needed. I could return for more ink and parchment. But I should seem foolish were I to ride from Bampton for one more gathering every week or two. Perhaps it is the way of a young man who would court a maid — to appear foolish.