A Corpse at St Andrew's Chapel

by Mel Starr

  “You use poplar?” I enquired as I picked up one of the unfinished arrows.

  “An’ alder…for practice, like. Was we t’be at war wi’ the Frenchies again I’d use ash. Poplar be good enough for practice.”

  “And hunting?”

  “Hunting?” The verderer stepped back in shock. “Lord Gilbert hunts wi’ hawks an’ hounds an’ none other may hunt in this wood…’Tis my job t’see t’that.” He concluded this remark with some vehemence.

  “You’ve seen no sign of poachers in Lord Gilbert’s forest? No unburied bones or entrails?”

  “Nay! Me an’ me lads keep a sharp eye for such practice…well, Richard an’ Walter do. Me eyes, you know…’Twould be worth me position to allow thieves to take Lord Gilbert’s deer.”

  “Do you make arrows to sell, or are they for your sons’ use? I saw Richard two weeks past, I think, at the castle of a Sunday afternoon.”

  “I make ’em, mostly to keep me ’and in practice, like. Not much use for arrows now’t we ain’t got Frenchies t’shoot at. ’Spect that’ll change. Usually does.”

  I agreed. Peace is too valuable to use overmuch. It must be parceled out in small quantities, interspersed between large amounts of war. King Edward would soon find reason enough to resume war in France, I was sure. Or the French king would find cause to attack English possessions. Gerard knew this as well as did every Englishman, and Frenchman too.

  The beams, ready or not, could not be taken to Bampton until Friday, for Tuesday and Wednesday were also Rogation Days, and Thursday was Ascension Day.

  I awoke early on Ascension Day and after a breakfast of maslin loaf and ale went to the castle parapet to watch the dressing of the Ladywell. This well is ancient, its water said to bring miraculous cures to the ill who seek relief in faith. Even beasts are said to recover health if brought to drink water from the well.

  Devout men of centuries past had built a small grotto about the well. Even before I mounted the parapet faithful men and women had begun to bedeck the stones with flowers. Before St Beornwald’s bell rang for matins the Ladywell – so named as sacred to the mother of Christ – was covered in blooms.

  I left the parapet and castle and joined others in procession to the church. Many carried new willow shoots in honor of the day, bundled with blue ribbons of linen or woolen strips.

  Ascension Day mass is, to me, a joyous event. I am reminded that Christ said He would one day return in like manner as He departed. Such a day will indeed be a joy, for after it there will be no more pestilence or famine. Princes will no longer war upon each other and the commons. I might almost wish Christ may return tomorrow.

  But should He do so I will never hold a dear wife close, nor shall I watch children and grandchildren play about my feet. Much sorrow will be ended when the Lord Christ returns, but some joy also. Considering all, it is my wish that our Lord delay His return awhile yet. Perhaps when I am bent with age and stumble upon my way with rheumy eyes and unsure step, then perhaps, when I have seen sons grow to honorable manhood, then I might be pleased to see Christ appear in the eastern sky. Well, I think our Lord will appear when He is ready, which time neither I nor any man can know. So it will behoove me to be ready when He is. Although I do pray He will tarry until I find a good wife.

  Early Friday morning I sent six men, six horses, and three carts to Alvescot to haul the beams to the castle. I thought two trips from each would complete the work. It was near the twelfth hour, the sun hanging low above the west forest, when the heavily laden carts appeared a second time through the trees bearing their burdens.

  The carts and their tired horses and villeins passed through the gatehouse and made their way toward the southeast corner of the castle yard, where the marshalsea was to be extended. I watched as the beams were unloaded, having nothing better to do until the evening meal, when from the corner of my eye I saw John Holcutt standing under the gatehouse in conversation with a woman.

  I perceived nothing unusual in this conversation so paid it no mind. But a few moments later the reeve approached, smiling, holding a spade in one hand and some obscured object in the other.

  “You seem pleased with yourself, John”

  “Aye. I have done Lord Gilbert good service this day.”

  “How so?”

  The reeve held forth the spade. It was iron, and well made. “I have added this to the castle tools…for two pence. And,” he continued, “two nails, for a farthing.”

  John lifted the object in his left hand and presented it for my examination. It was a block of wood – beech, I think – about the length of a man’s hand, half as broad, and two fingers in thickness. Driven through this wooden fragment were two iron nails, each as long as a man’s fingers.

  “What do you suppose it may be?” the reeve asked as I took the object and inspected it. “I see no useful purpose for such a tool. Seems a waste of two nails to me.”

  “Well, the nails will be useful for the new stables. And tuppence for a good shovel is money well spent. Who sold these for such a price?”

  “A woman…she brought the shovel to the gatehouse an’ asked Wilfred was anyone about who might buy from her. He sent for me. She would have three pence, she said, an’ ’twould have been a good price. But I got her to take two.”

  “Do you know this woman?”

  “Nay. Said as she was a poor widow what needed to feed ’er younguns. Seemed well enough fed to me.”

  “Come,” I nodded toward the gatehouse. “Perhaps Wilfred will know who ’twas.”

  John peered at me beneath a furrowed brow. “Is it important?”

  “Probably not, yet I am uneasy about this bargain.”

  “You think I did wrong in spending Lord Gilbert’s money so?”

  “No. You spent wisely. But who sold these, and why, and what this,” I lifted the wooden block with its nails, “may be is a puzzle to me.”

  Wilfred watched us approach from his post at the gatehouse. He sat on a bench, his back against stones warmed by the afternoon sun, but stood, as well he might, when reeve and bailiff both approach.

  “The woman who sold these to John…do you know her?”

  “Aye,” the porter replied. “Emma, her whose man got buried a month past.”

  I studied the spade John Holcutt carried. No doubt it was the tool I’d seen the woman plying the day I sought her husband and found her in the toft. Whatever Henry atte Bridge’s source of income was which allowed him to purchase an iron spade, both he and it were now gone. Doubtless the woman needed two pence more than an iron spade.

  I sent the reeve to the castle storeroom with the spade, but kept the wooden block with its embedded nails. The device intrigued me. I placed it in my chamber while I supped, but my mind was not on the meal. Until the second remove, when was served a favorite dish of mine – pork in spiced syrup. I cut a substantial piece from the roast as a groom placed it before me.

  While I enjoyed the pork I noted that much of the syrup soaked into the trencher. If I wished to enjoy the flavor of the malmsey and spices in the syrup I must eat of the stale bread. I admit I considered this, but decided it might appear gluttonous to those who dined with me.

  So I finished my pork and observed the brown stain made in the trencher by the cook’s savory syrup. It was at this moment a disquieting thought seized me. The alarm I felt so possessed me that I could hardly bear to finish the third remove before hastening to my chamber and the wooden block.

  This block was partly discolored, as if with age. Its appearance was a mottled brown, much like the hue of the cook’s syrup. But the wood was not of uniform color. Some places on the block’s surface were stained more darkly than others. The side which held the nail heads was hardly discolored at all.

  I put a fingernail to one of the darkened areas, between the two nails, and scraped it across the surface. A brown, powdery residue appeared under my fingernail. I took a scalpel from my instrument box to repeat the experiment, and scraped a small pile of powder onto
my table. It was grown too dark to inspect this material closely, so I lighted a cresset and brought it close to the scrapings. I had seen such a color before, many times. Before me, on my table, was a tiny mound of dried blood, or something much like it.

  Tomorrow I would need to visit the Weald again and seek Emma atte Bridge. I would rather face a thousand ravens, each trying to pluck out my eye. But I needed knowledge of these nails and knew of no other place to find it. I foresaw another night pacing the parapet.

  I found Emma in her toft next morning, weeding amongst her onions and screeching at her children. The urchins were apparently being instructed in the proper method of extracting weeds from a row of onions. If volume indicated the success of their education, they were being well taught.

  The woman saw my feet appear at the corner of her hut, stood, and with the back of a wrist swept hair from her eyes. She stared silently at me from under her hood, which she wore open and turned back. The locks she brushed into place were showing streaks of grey, and deep furrows creased the corners of her eyes and mouth. Her children noted the sudden silence and stared from their knees at their mother and the visitor they had seen before.

  Emma glared at me, but refused to speak a greeting, even an unwelcome one. So I fished the wooden block and nails from my pouch and held it before her. “You sold this to Lord Gilbert’s reeve yesterday.”

  The woman remained silent, her eyes flicking from me to the block in my hand.

  “What is it?” I asked. “To what use is it put?”

  “Dunno,” the woman finally said.

  “It was your husband’s?”

  “Aye…found it in ’is pouch.”

  “You never saw him use it?”

  “Nay. Never seen it ’til I was goin’ through the pouch an’ found it. Thought the castle might want nails. I seen the carts goin’ in with timbers. Figured you was buildin’ somethin’.”

  “Indeed, the nails will find good service. You do not know to what work your husband put them?”

  “Nay.”

  I decided to change the subject. “The spade…did Henry buy it from Edmund?”

  The woman shrugged. “Suppose. ’E din’t say.”

  “’Tis a better tool than most might own,” I remarked.

  Emma looked past me to the corner of her house. “’E were a good provider, was my Henry.”

  “So you sold the spade to provide for your children, now Henry’s buried?”

  “Aye. You an’ the vicars might find who ’tis murdered ’im, but that’ll not feed us.”

  I thought as how Emma was now placed in competition with Matilda for the eligible bachelors and widowers of the town. I knew who would win that contest. But Emma would probably be content with second place.

  I bid the woman good day and heard her again bellowing admonitions to her offspring before I had got thirty paces.

  I turned at Mill Street to enter the town – after my customary halt on the bridge to observe the brook. While I leaned on the paling I heard sharp words issue from the open door of the mill. A moment later the miller’s wife appeared, dragging a sack. This she stacked beside another like it, muttered something through the open door, then stalked after her words back into the mill.

  Here is a woman, I thought, who will be glad in three more weeks when her husband’s broken arm be mended.

  Edmund looked up from his hammer and anvil as I approached. His brow creased to a frown. I have noticed that my appearance unannounced does that to foreheads more often since I became bailiff to Lord Gilbert Talbot’s manor at Bampton. I almost never caused a scowl when I was but Master Hugh, surgeon. Edmund might yet worry that the baker would charge him at hallmote. So I thought.

  I smiled at the smith but his rutted brow remained unchanged. I withdrew the block and nails from my pouch and presented it to him.

  “Good day, Edmund. For what purpose was this made?” I held the object out for his inspection.

  The smith turned the block in his thick fingers, felt of the nails, then spoke. “I know not…nothin’ I’ve seen before.”

  “You did not make it?”

  “Nay. Might’ve made the nails. Look like my work.”

  “Did you sell nails to Henry atte Bridge?”

  “Might’ve. Sold ’im hinges two years an’ more past. ’E wanted nails too, I remember.”

  “How many nails, for two hinges?”

  The smith hesitated, then replied, “Twelve…for the hinges ’e wanted.”

  “How much did that cost him?”

  “Thruppence each for hinges…an’ tuppence for nails.”

  “Henry atte Bridge spent…what, eight pence to swing his door?”

  “Aye. ’Bout that,” Edmund agreed.

  I did not ask the smith where Henry would find eight pence for hinges. Certainly he would not know. Leather hinges served most cotters and probably had sufficed for Henry, until he found enough money to install iron hinges. But were there no other things a man in Henry atte Bridge’s place could find to spend eight pence on which would serve him better? He might have purchased a dozen and more hens and fed his children eggs. Well, there is no explaining how some men, both rich and poor, spend their treasure.

  I did not return to the castle, though it was near time for dinner. Once across the bridge I turned again into the Weald and walked to Emma atte Bridge’s iron-hinged door.

  The toft – indeed, the entire hut – was silent as I approached. The only sign of life was a curl of smoke which eddied from under the gable vent. The family, like others, were at their noon meal.

  Surely the woman did not expect my return, nor any other visitor, I think. I knocked on the door, and in response a bench upset in the hut as the one who sat upon it sprang up.

  “’Oose there?” Emma called through the oiled skin of the window.

  “’Tis Master Hugh. I am sorry to disturb your dinner. I have but one more question.”

  I heard the latch lifted and the hinges in question squealed softly as Emma opened the door and peered at me. Again the woman was silent, staring at me under lowered brows, her mouth pursed. She did not invite me to enter. I am Lord Gilbert’s bailiff. I need no invitation.

  “I should like to examine the hinges Henry installed on this door.”

  The woman stepped back grudgingly and allowed me to open the door enough that I could enter the dim, smoky room. With the door open to daylight I could see the hinges plainly. Only two nails held each hinge to the door-post. There was, in each hinge, a hole for a third nail which might at one time have been driven home like the others, but was now missing. Each hinge was held in place, to door and jamb, by five nails, not six.

  I took the block from my pouch and held it close to the upper hinge. The heads of the nails fixing the hinge in place were the same as the nails piercing the block.

  “The nails you sold came from these hinges,” I told Emma. “When did your husband remove them?”

  “Don’t know,” the woman shrugged and chewed on her lower lip. “Din’t know as ’e did.”

  “You did not see him draw them?”

  “Nay.”

  The woman said no more. I apologized for disturbing her dinner and made my way back to the castle in time for my own meal.

  My thoughts were not on the castle cook’s culinary creations that day. I puzzled over the wood and nails as I ate. Perhaps, I thought, the tool served for dealing with animals in some new way. The blood – or what I took to be blood – seemed to point to such a use. But John Holcutt, whose duties with demesne livestock made him knowledgeable of all instruments needful for working with beasts, recognized no purpose for this thing.

  I was near to giving up study of the strange tool, knocking the nails from it, and forgetting the puzzle. But in my chamber after dinner I examined the thing again.

  My previous study had concentrated on the nails. It seemed to me that whatever this tool was designed to accomplish, it was the nails which were to do the work. The wooden block served
but to hold them in place, and as a handle.

  I have told of the size of the piece. As I examined it again I noticed that the block was not symmetrically shaped. The block was slightly narrower at one end than at the other, and the sides were beveled. I recognized then what it was and berated myself for my lack of imagination. I set off immediately for the town and the Broad Street where I might find Ralph the cooper.

  He was at his vise, drawknife in hand, shaping a stave. He stood in a pile of sweet-smelling shavings which, as at the new tithe barn, helped obscure the fact that their maker was overdue for his spring bath.

  The cooper looked up from his work, recognized me, and smiled. As well he might, for my previous business with him had always involved a purchase for the castle storeroom or buttery. He saw a lucrative sale in his future.

  Then his eyes fell to the wooden block and its captive nails and the grin on his face melted like butter in July. Here, I thought, may be found another mystery.

  “Good day, Ralph,” I smiled broadly. I wished the fellow at ease; I thought I might learn more from him than if he was anxious. And from his new-fallen countenance I felt certain he had some reason for worry. And it had to do with the block.

  “I have a tool here which no man can explain.”

  The cooper’s eyes darted from my face to my outstretched hand and back again.

  “Henry atte Bridge, who was struck down in the forest, you may remember, made this. See how the wood is shaped like a length of barrel stave.” I handed the piece to Ralph, who took it gingerly, as if the nails were yet hot from Edmund’s forge.

  “How long ago,” I asked, “did Henry come to you seeking wood?”

  I might have asked if Henry had sought wood of him, but then the cooper might deny the source and I might never get the answer I needed. Better he thought I knew the origin of the block for a certainty.

  “’Twas but a scrap,” Ralph offered. “A stave was split an’ discarded. Henry asked for a piece.”

  “Beech, is it not?”

  “Aye.”

  “Did Henry say his purpose? Did he show you the nails as they are now?”

  “Nay…’e had no nails. Just asked for the wood.”