Mel Starr - A Corpse at St Andrew's Chapel

I left instructions to be awakened for dinner. I have had enough of cold meat and bread taken in my chamber. This must have caused some puzzlement, for none of the castle grooms or valets knew I had been up awake all night. They would know the truth of it soon enough.

The trestle tables and benches awakened me as they were dragged across the great hall floor. So when Uctred rapped upon my door I was already alert. But when I stood from my bed I nearly fell back to it again. I was so dizzy I could not stand, but sought my bench and collapsed upon it. Perhaps it was the blows I had taken, or the willow bark and lettuce, which caused my unsteady legs. I was required to sit for a moment until my head cleared and I was able to stand again. Uctred continued thumping against the door, his exasperation at receiving no reply causing him to beat the oaken planks more and more vigorously until I finally found wit to call out that I would soon appear.

I stood cautiously, ready to resume my seat if need be. But my head did not whirl this time. I was nevertheless careful as I opened my door and made my way to my place at the table.

The meal was hot and tasty, and I was hungry, so I remember it well. Even a whack across the head will not harm my appetite for long. The first remove was a pike and roasted capons, and a pottage of peas and bacon. For the second remove there was a game pie of rabbit with onions and apples, and mushroom tarts. For the subtlety a pudding with Spanish almonds, dates, raisins and currants.

I rose, sated, from the table and ordered that a trencher be taken to Thomas atte Bridge in his cell. An old, stale crust, stained with the grease of a capon, so Thomas would know, there in his cell, what others consumed for their dinner. Of course, most cotters by this time of year lived on pottage and perhaps an egg. Meat and any other good thing from last year’s slaughter and harvest was long since consumed, and the new harvest was a month and more away. If a villein or poor tenant could fill his belly with peas and barley pottage by St Swithin’s Day he would think himself fortunate. But there had been roasted meat in the Weald only a fortnight before. Perhaps a part of the haunch of venison in Thomas’ sack was yet in his hut, where, were he free, he might now be licking grease from his fingers rather than chewing a stale crust and considering what might have been.

I did not sleep well that night. Perhaps the long nap before dinner was responsible. Or perhaps the tender lumps on my head were the cause. They reminded me of their presence each time I turned upon my pillow. I never knew goose feathers could be so firm.

The Bampton Castle dungeon is beneath the buttery. If wine is spilled on the planks above, the drippings might sweeten the place. But the west wall of the cell is the east wall of the castle cesspit. The stones of that foundation passed more of their contents, I think, than did the oaken boards of the buttery floor above. The stench was awful. Good. A man might be so eager to leave the place he might even tell the truth if it meant his release.

The door to the dungeon had no latch or lock. It was fixed on one side to the stones with three iron hinges pinned to the wall. To make the door secure it was held in place by two oaken beams which dropped into iron fixtures on either side of the door. These were also pinned to the stones. A small opening little larger than my fist permitted conversation through the door, and the passage of food and water.

Uctred accompanied me down the stone steps behind the kitchen. We each held a cresset, for although the new day dawned bright and golden, no windows or embrasures lit either the cell or the steps and passage leading to it. The stone walls of this corridor were cold and damp. Thomas, I decided, should be thankful he’d taken residence in this place in summer, rather than winter.

Thomas heard us approach. His face appeared at the opening in the door, expecting a crust for his breakfast, I think. He had a crust the day before, and would receive another after this day’s dinner. With such he must be content. I had little sympathy for a man who thought he had slain me and would have buried me, unknown and ungrieved, in unconsecrated ground outside St Andrew’s Chapel churchyard wall.

Uctred lifted the timbers which secured the door and swung it open on protesting hinges. Hinges always seem to squeal in protest when required to perform their appointed work. Like some men. Thomas atte Bridge glowered at me through the open door. I glowered back. I had been Lord Gilbert’s bailiff for nearly two years. In that time I had learned the potency of a practiced scowl. I stepped through the open door and was gratified to see atte Bridge retreat and cast his eyes to the hard-packed earth at his feet. The opening skirmish in this battle was won.

“John Kellet,” I began, “is in the hands of the vicars of St Beornwald’s Church. No doubt the bishop’s court will see to this business and I will be called to testify. Will you have me learn of your crimes from the priest, or will you tell me?”

Thomas stood silent before me, clenching and releasing his fists, considering his options, which were few. It must be a family inheritance, for Henry clenched his fists when pressed in much the same way.

“Ain’t no poacher,” he finally muttered.

“The venison in the sack you would have given to John Kellet was surely Lord Gilbert’s deer. I think I followed you to Alvescot three weeks past, where you gave me a blow from behind the churchyard wall. You were seeing to your snares, I think.”

“Never set no snares,” Thomas replied. I watched the muscles of his jaw twitch as he spoke.

“You used bow and arrows? In the dark?” I found this dubious. The man I followed to Alvescot carried no bow.

“Never kilt none o’ Lord Gilbert’s deer, w’snare or arrows.”

“Ah…but you do not deny whacking me across the head. And you would have made of me a corpse at St Andrew’s Chapel. You had a haunch of venison there, and a sack. The same sack as at Alvescot, I’d guess. You wished me dead to hide something, but not poaching?” I scoffed.

Thomas had been inspecting his feet during this conversation. But now he looked up, first at me, then to the door, where Uctred stood frowning, then to the walls of his cell, and then back to me. He would have glowered again, I think, but to do so requires some confidence and his was melting away like an April snowfall. He was trapped, and he knew it.

“You and your brother took meat to John Kellet. And late at night, so none would know. Fair dealings may be done in the day. Only mischief need be done in the dark.”

The logic of this remark seemed to strike home. Thomas looked down and studied the ground at his feet again.

“You sought to pay Kellet for some service, I think. A debt. To save his own skin he’ll tell the bishop’s men a tale to benefit him, not you. He will surely lay blame at your feet where he can. You will already be charged with poaching and venturing murder. What new indictment will come when John Kellet absolves himself of guilt?”

Atte Bridge did not respond for a moment. He was thinking. I assume. Thinking was an exercise Thomas atte Bridge tended to avoid. Doing so now was surely a new experience. Anything done for the first time will likely be done slowly. I gave him time to ponder his options. When he finally spoke several riddles were explained.

“’Twas Walter killed the deer. Not me.”

“Walter?” I scratched my head, trying to match the name with a face. I did, to my vexation.

“The verderer’s son?”

“Aye.”

“Did Gerard know of this?”

“Nay…don’t think so. I was always t’come late for my share.”