Mel Starr - A Corpse at St Andrew's Chapel

I scrubbed myself clean with a much-shrunken woolen cloth which I keep for the purpose. I had had no bath since Ash Wednesday, which was more recent than most, as I am one of the few foolish enough to risk illness by bathing in winter. So it was pleasant to renew acquaintance with hot water and soak in the barrel until the water cooled. But I admit that no insight occurred while I squatted immersed in my barrel. Alan the beadle’s shoes were as lost after my bath as before.

I went from barrel to bed, taking time only to dry myself. I thought I should fall to sleep quickly; I had a full stomach and was warmed from my bath. But slumber would not come. I might as well have attended Alan’s wake, and sat with the corpse all night.

I reviewed the day and its events. The monotony of repetition did not quiet my mind. When I saw the glow of the waning paschal moon in my window, I rose from my bed, dressed, and quietly left my chamber. The porter’s assistant slumbered at the gatehouse. His duty was to keep watch over the castle through the night, but there was peace in the land and few brigands would dare Bampton Castle. His duty was tedious and conducive to slumber.

I coughed and scuffed my feet until my approach roused him. I did not wish the derelict watchman to awaken and find a shadowy stranger atop the castle wall. I bid the fellow “good evening” and climbed the gatehouse steps to the parapet.

I circled the castle wall indolently, stopping often to gaze through the merlons over the sleeping village to the east, and Lord Gilbert’s fields and forest to the west. Most of the village slept. Occasionally from the town I heard voices. Someone at Alan’s wake, I think, had too much ale and could be heard from Catte Street.

This echo of distant voices caused me at first to ignore another sound which came faintly to my ears. I know not how long I may have heard the howls before the indistinct sound finally registered in my mind. Off to the east, beyond St Andrew’s Chapel, I heard a yapping and howling soft in the distance.

I made my way to the tower at the southeast corner of the castle wall. This seemed to be the closest point to the direction from which the sound came. There was silence for a time, then the howls began again. As I listened the origin of the keening seemed to move to the south of the town, until after an hour or so of intermittent howls and silence, the source seemed to move directly south of the Weald. And then I heard it no more.

I had never before heard a wolf howl, but it seemed to me I had done so this night. Tomorrow, Good Friday or not, I would need to track and dispatch the animal which made these howls in the night. I did not know if this was the beast which slew Alan, but it seemed to me a reasonable suspicion. Perhaps Alan, as his wife had guessed, in his patrol had heard the wolf while Bampton slept and followed the sound to investigate. This would explain why he was found away from the town. But it would not explain his absent shoes.

I returned to my bed and slept fitfully until I heard in the distance the Angelus Bell sound from the tower of the Church of St Beornwald. I desired to organize a party immediately to seek out the wolf, but at the third hour Alan the beadle would be buried. I would not show disrespect to the dead by taking away those who would mourn and walk in his procession.

I broke my fast with half a loaf of good maslin and a pint of ale, then made my way to Catte Street. Because of my position I would be among the chief mourners and, with Hubert Shillside, John Holcutt, Matilda, and a few other small burghers, would lead the procession to the church.

I was surprised to see that Matilda had provided a coffin. Most of the tenant class rest on their bier encased only in a black linen shroud. Alan’s brother and three others from the town took their places at the poles. When Thomas de Bowlegh arrived to lead the procession, they lifted the coffin and we in the cortege fell in behind the priest.

Matilda and most of the others began wailing in grief as the coffin left the ground, but I walked silently beside Hubert Shillside as we passed from Catte Street to the High Street and turned right up the Broad Street. As the procession entered Church Street I spoke: “I heard the beast last night,” I whispered.

“Beast?” Shillside questioned.

“Aye. The wolf which may have slain poor Alan. Sleep escaped me, so I rose to walk the castle parapet. ’Twas then I heard it, howling.”

“A wolf?”

“Perhaps. I know little of wolves but that they are said to howl of a moonlit night. ’Twas no hound, of this I feel certain.”

“Where away?”

“To the east at first, beyond St Andrew’s Chapel. Then, as the hour grew late, it moved to the south beyond the Weald.”

“Think you Alan heard it while we slept, and died following the sound?”

“I suspect it. But I would have his shoes. A wolf may have taken his life, but ’twas a man took his shoes.”

“Aye,” the coroner agreed, and we fell into a companionable silence for the remainder of the walk to the church.

Our conversation was not overheard by any other in the procession for the lamentation which accompanied our steps. Matilda and her sisters and cousins wailed loudly. Others in the procession behind them added to the din. The clamor did not subside until the bearers lowered the coffin at the lych gate.

Father Thomas is a good priest, and sends a man to meet God with dignity, even a bit of elegance — which some might think more than Alan’s station required. But if a poor man cannot receive consideration while on his bier, I know not where he may find it.

The bearers lifted the coffin again and took it to the church. Father Thomas spoke the Mourning Office in a clear, strong voice, then removed his chausable. A cloud of incense floated over poor Alan as the vicar swung the censor. He sprinkled holy water on the body, then began our Lord’s prayer, which all followed. There were the usual prayers of forgiveness and deliverance from judgment, then the bier was lifted once again and all followed it out through the porch to the churchyard.

Father Thomas led us to a shaded corner near the wall, made the sign of the cross, and sprinkled holy water on the gravesite. The gravediggers, who had remained well back in the cortege, now came forward and set their spades to work at the chosen earth. The priest read psalms while these two were at their work.

When the grave was ready Alan’s brother lifted the coffin lid and he and the other bearers drew Alan in his shroud from the coffin and lowered him into the grave. As I suspected, Matilda could not afford to bury her husband in a coffin, but wished to show respect for her mate, so had rented a box from the carpenter — who stood in the group of mourners and watched as the gravediggers filled in the hole while Father Thomas spoke the final collect for forgiveness.

As the last dirt was shoveled on to the grave I caught a movement from the corner of my eye. Richard Hatcher, one of Lord Gilbert’s tenants, was motioning to John Holcutt from the churchyard wall. I gave no more attention to this, but went to offer sympathy to the widow. Matilda stood silent, staring at the fresh earth, her child clinging to her skirts, as the group of mourners began to break apart.

I do not now recall what I said to her. ’Twas probably trite. I thought to say to her that a funeral is not a time when the living mourn the dead, but rather a time when the dying remember those who are now alive in Christ, if their faith was whole.

Perhaps I should have spoken these words but I was uncertain how she would receive them. I may say this to her at some later time. I have learned that it is easier to say later what one should have said before, than to unsay what should not have been said at all.