A Corpse at St Andrew's Chapel

by Mel Starr

  Of the two men, baker and smith, I thought the baker most likely to share the truth if pressed. No man likes to admit he has been cuckolded, but even less would he admit to adultery. And the blacksmith was of more unyielding character than the baker.

  So I followed Philip to the bakery, and shouted for him to attend me as he was about to follow his wife through the shop door. Philip glanced at me and frowned, as did Margery, but I paid no heed to their dark looks. I invited Philip to walk with me and without awaiting an answer set off down High Street toward Bushey Row. I was sure the baker would follow. He did. When a lord’s bailiff makes a request, ’tis much like a command. May God forgive me my pride, but I enjoy such moments. ’Tis well such times occur, else the onerous duties of a bailiff would overwhelm me.

  I slowed my pace as we reached Catte Street so Philip could catch up. He did so at Bushey Row, where I stopped and turned to face him.

  “How long,” I challenged him, “has your wife betrayed you with Edmund Smith?”

  “Betrayed me?”

  I thought from his reply and the flash in his eye that the baker might disavow my claim. Indeed, I believe the thought crossed his mind. But denial quickly faded from Philip’s face and his eyes dropped to study the mud at our feet.

  “Aye…’tis plain enough.”

  “It is?” the baker begged. “’Tis known in the town?”

  “If not, ’twill soon be, unless the business ends. How long,” I asked again, “has this gone on?”

  “Near two years, I think,” Philip muttered.

  “You are uncertain?”

  “Aye.”

  “And this is why you attacked Edmund with his hammer?”

  The baker fingered the scar on his neck and mumbled assent.

  “Why now? Why did you not confront him when you first suspected?”

  The baker looked away, as if to study the forest which lay east toward St Andrew’s Chapel. “I…I feared ’twould do no good. Edmund is a strong man. I could not threaten him, nor could I make his deeds known. The town would laugh at me before ’twould censure him.”

  “So you did nothing?”

  “Aye…well, not nothin’, like.”

  “Oh?”

  “I thought, was I a better husband Margery might lose interest in Edmund.”

  “This was not so?”

  “Nay.” He spat the word. “The more I looked to please her, the more she scorned me. I should have beat her…but I thought that would drive her from me. I see now she thinks me weak.”

  “You will not beat her now?”

  The baker studied the forest again before he answered. “She knows I must think of it. She told me while I lay in bed with my wound that Edmund would defend her and do worse to me should I raise my hand to her.”

  I was in no way competent to advise any man regarding his wife. We stood silent for a moment, poking toes into the mud, then the baker spoke again. “What will you do?”

  I hesitated. Neither Oxford nor Paris had trained me to deal with such a puzzle. But as we faced each other in the road a plan took shape in my mind.

  “Return to your wife, and tell her I know all. Tell her that if she sees Edmund again I will fine him for leirwite and raise his rent so high he must leave Bampton. The castle smith can meet town needs ’til another smith be found. Say nothing more to her. If she rants and storms, just smile and go about your business.”

  “And if she sneaks away to Edmund again?”

  “You must tell me straight away.”

  The baker turned to go, and as he walked away it seemed to me his back was straighter, his shoulders firmer, his head higher. Well, I thought, ’twill be diverting to see how Margery takes the news.

  It was my purpose to go straight to Edmund’s forge and make demands of him for his future behavior. But as I watched Philip stride away the rotund figure of John Kellet approached down the path from St Andrew’s Chapel.

  As the priest neared I saw his eyes flick from me to the departing baker and back. His brow seemed creased in worry but when he was close enough to speak he greeted me warmly and his visage cleared.

  “Good day, Master Hugh.”

  Kellet stopped in the path as he greeted me. No doubt he was puzzled as to why the baker and I had enjoyed a conversation while standing in the road far from either the castle or the bakery. I felt no necessity to enlighten him.

  “Good day.”

  The fat priest glanced again over my shoulder at the departing baker, peered at the sky, then spoke again. “A good day for a man to be free of his labors.”

  “Aye; any day will serve for that purpose.”

  “Hah…truly.”

  I did not intend to startle the fellow, but my next words surely did. Why, I did not then know. “Your skill at archery is great, for one who must see little practice.”

  Kellet’s hands, folded across his belly, twitched, and his head jerked as if he had been slapped. Quickly as these motions appeared, they were gone. But I wondered why complimenting his talent would cause the priest to react so. Perhaps he worried that word of his exhibition had reached the vicars of St Beornwald’s Church and put his position in jeopardy.

  “’Tis not meet for one who has a vocation to disport himself with arms, so Father Ralph has said.”

  “There are bishops,” I reminded him, “who mount chargers and go to war.”

  “Aye, well enough for bishops,” Kellet grimaced.

  “But you must obey Father Ralph or lose your living, eh?”

  “Aye,” the priest sighed.

  During this brief conversation Kellet’s eyes continued to dart from me to Philip’s retreating back. I wondered what the priest found so compelling about the baker. My next thought provided the answer: the confessional.

  I turned and stared in the direction of Kellet’s gaze. Philip was at the moment disappearing past the curve of the High Street toward his shop. “A sad tale, that,” I sighed, and watched intently from the corner of my eye to see if my words brought a response from the priest.

  “The baker?” Kellet asked. “Is he ill? Does his business go badly?”

  If the priest dissembled, he did so skillfully. I detected no hint that he knew of Philip’s true adversity. Perhaps the baker and his wife confessed their sins at St Beornwald’s confessional and Kellet knew nothing.

  “Nay. ’Tis another matter vexes him.”

  The priest stared at me, and looked perplexed when I explained no more but rather turned to make my way back to the castle. My stomach told me ’twas near time for dinner. As Kellet was headed in the same direction he fell in beside me and was my companion until we came to Broad Street. There he turned aside to the blacksmith’s forge. We parted with wordless gestures.

  It had been my intention to visit Edmund myself, but I had no wish to wait my turn to speak to him. I could just as well return after dinner. And perhaps my demands of the smith might seem more reasonable to him did I voice them on a full stomach.

  Shill Brook beckoned to me as I crossed it on the bridge. I stopped and leaned over the rail to watch the flowing stream. No trout appeared this time. Without the attraction of a fish my eyes turned back to the town where I saw in the distance John Kellet and Edmund the smith in close conversation.

  Something about their posture convinced me that the discussion was antagonistic. I lost interest in the brook and watched the two men. The smith stood with his left side to me, so I did not see him cock his right fist or deliver the blow. But the result was plain enough, even from 200 paces distant.

  The priest grasped at his belly and dropped to his knees, then fell forward into the dirt, face first, his hands grasping at his stomach. As I watched Kellet tried to lift his face from the road, but no sooner got to his knees than Edmund dropped his strong right fist on the back of the priest’s skull and he fell headlong again.

  Kellet rolled about in the dirt and mud of the road, which, given his shape, was not difficult for him to do. Edmund stood immobile over him
as Kellet alternately clawed at the ground and grabbed at his gut. The priest’s thrashing about gradually subsided to more measured motions and he rose again to hands and knees. He remained, swaying, in this position for some time, as if he expected Edmund to thump him across the skull again.

  Another blow did not fall. Instead the smith looked up the High Street as if to see if his blows were observed. He saw me gazing dumbly from the bridge, shrugged, and disappeared into the smithy, leaving John Kellet to stagger to his feet.

  The priest lurched to a vertical position, then brushed briefly at his robe and stumbled off down the High Street to the east and his chapel. I had two subjects now to discuss with the smith. It would not be a pleasant interview. My gut was tense, whether from hunger or sympathy for the priest and the blow which dropped him, I know not. I turned from the bridge and walked to the castle and my meal.

  I do not remember much about the dinner which followed. My mind was busy with other things. I ate slowly, I remember, as if enjoying a last meal. But when all others who dined at Lord Gilbert Talbot’s expense were sated and gone, and the valets drummed their fingers against the stones on which they leaned, I could hesitate no longer. I left the table.

  I approached Edmund’s forge with much apprehension. I wondered what issue between the smith and John Kellet had caused Edmund to strike the priest, and whether my questions might provoke a similar result. I prayed that the smith would remember my office and restrain himself from attacking Lord Gilbert’s bailiff. He did, barely.

  The smith, like others in the town and kingdom, did not work this day. His fire was banked. No smoke issued from his chimney. I found him in the dim interior of the smithy, shoving a maslin loaf into his mouth with grimy fingers. Across his broad forehead and cheeks the streaks which the sweat of his dancing had washed clean were yet visible. He looked up at me from his bench, but said nothing and continued to munch his loaf.

  “You had a disagreement with John Kellet this day,” I said by way of greeting.

  Edmund continued to chew, and through a mouthful of bread replied, “Not a disagreement, exactly.”

  “Oh? What then was it, exactly, which I witnessed?”

  The smith tore off another chunk of bread, stuffed it into his mouth, and only then answered my question. “More an understandin’, like.”

  “What is it then that you and Father John now understand?”

  “It’s personal, like,” Edmund replied, and wiped his mouth with the back of a ham-like fist.

  “When personal understandings lead to blows delivered on town streets the, uh, understanding is no longer confidential. And you will surely be reported to the vicars of St Beornwald’s Church. No man can expect to assault a priest without censure.”

  The smith finished the last of his loaf, and stood while he chewed it. His hands, no longer occupied, he clenched and relaxed as they hung from his broad shoulders. Perhaps he intended I witness this, or perhaps it was involuntary. Edmund stood before his bench for a moment, then walked toward me and did not stop until he was close enough that I could smell his breath. The maslin loaf had done little to sweeten that emanation. What charms he held for the baker’s wife I cannot guess, but neither his cleanliness nor his fragrance, I think, were part of the attraction.

  He stopped his advance inches from me. I could not decide at that moment if I wished to be Hugh de Singleton, surgeon, or Hugh, Lord Gilbert’s bailiff. Hugh the surgeon would retreat. Lord Gilbert’s bailiff would not be intimidated. I took a deep breath, which Edmund probably noted, nearly choked on the odor, and stood my ground.

  The smith was brawny but short. His attempt at intimidation failed in part because when his feet stopped he was staring from inches away at my collar, while I looked down on his greasy, thinning hair. It is always best to be atop the castle wall, looking down on the attacker.

  “My doins’ wi’ t’priest is private,” Edmund repeated in a soft voice which nevertheless carried a threat.

  “Not when you strike him in the public streets…’tis no longer private. If he will, he may bring a charge against you at hallmote, or lodge a complaint with the bishop, whom he serves. I saw all, and would be his witness.”

  A hint of a smile crossed the smith’s lips. “He’ll make no charge,” he assured me.

  “It seems no man will make a charge against you. You near slice a man’s head off, and thump another in the street, yet neither man will assert their right against you in manor court. I wonder why this can be?”

  The smith shrugged but provided no other answer. He left it to me to continue the conversation. Edmund must have disliked staring at my collarbone, for as I spoke he backed away a step. It was a small victory.

  “I have learned a thing which may disturb the serenity of the town,” I said softly. “Lord Gilbert would be distressed should he return and find it so.”

  “What has this to do with me?” Edmund challenged.

  “Much, as you well know.”

  Before the smith could object I continued, “You are not to see Margery, the baker’s wife, again. If I find that you have done so I will levy leirwite against you. Twelve pence, I think. And I will double…no, triple your rent.”

  Edmund was not intimidated.

  “Bah, I care little for your threats. The town needs a smith. Where will you find another if you force me out?”

  “The castle smith will deal with town business ’til we can replace you.”

  Edmund’s eyes fell to study the clinkers at his feet. He had not considered this, I think.

  “There be other towns happy to find a smith,” he replied. “You cannot harm me by drivin’ me off.”

  “I have no wish to do you harm. I will act only to preserve the peace on Lord Gilbert’s manor of Bampton…as I am bound to do. If you see Margery again you will be free to seek another town. After you pay the fine for leirwite.”

  As I spoke I moved closer to the smith, so he was again forced to either stare at my neck or look up to my face. I braced myself against the odor and held my ground. I hope Lord Gilbert will appreciate the sacrifices I make to preserve good order on this manor.

  Edmund shrugged and stepped back again. Another success. “Was gettin’ too costly, anyway,” he muttered, then turned to his cold forge.

  I did not know what may have been costly about the smith’s dealings with the baker’s wife. She demanded presents, I assumed.

  “You will heed this warning, then?”

  “Aye,” Edmund growled to the back wall of his smithy. As he spoke he grasped his hammer in what seemed a perfunctory gesture. I decided that so long as I had his acquiescence I would not press further a man with an iron hammer in his strong right hand. I turned to leave, but before I departed the cinder-coated toft I spoke once more. I could not resist nailing down a triumph.

  “My eyes and ears will be open to discover if you keep this bargain,” I said in my sternest voice, several paces now from Edmund and his hammer.

  I suppose Edmund heard, but he gave no sign. He continued to stroke the hammer handle while he stared at the blank back wall of the smithy. I left him there.

  If I could not learn the reason for John Kellet’s bellyache from Edmund, I thought I might do so from the priest, so I set off from the smithy toward St Andrew’s Chapel.

  Trees along the way were in the full bloom of June. Brilliant shades of green filled the space between fields and sky. I wonder why God chose to color his leafy creation green when it is living, and red and gold when dying? Were I God I would have done it the other way round.

  There is much about this world which would be different were it created by men. And most men think did they have the job, they could make a better world than the one we possess. But when I see the muddle men have made of the world they are given, it seems unlikely to me that, with the opportunity, they could create a better.

  I resolved to be content with green summer foliage. Perhaps in heaven there will be time enough in eternity for God to take questions
. There are many things I would ask of Him, not just His choice of color for a leaf.

  These maunderings so occupied me that I was upon St Andrew’s Chapel before I had time to think of questions I might ask John Kellet. I need not have concerned myself with this, for the priest’s condition, when I found him, brought with it its own questions.

  Chapter 13

  The chapel door was ajar. I pushed it open on squealing hinges and stepped into the structure, waiting there until my eyes became accustomed to the gloom. The chapel is ancient, and its windows few and small, from a time when glass was rare and more dear than even now it is. And those few, narrow panes were coated in dust and grime, so little light entered even where it might. ’Tis an insult to our Lord, I think, to allow his house to decay so.

  My eyes adjusted to the shadows as these thoughts swept through my mind. The priest wore black, an excellent camouflage in such a place, so when I first scanned the room I did not see him. Not until I studied more closely the tower steps – an especially dark corner of the chapel – did I see the man sitting on the lower step, his arms across his belly, slowly rocking to and fro.

  The priest was so lost in his own misery that he had not noticed my entry. The opening door had permitted a shaft of light to penetrate the chapel, but the priest’s eyes were closed. He muttered to himself as he swayed on the step.

  It is, I know, improper to intrude on a man’s thoughts at such a time. But had I not done so I might have been much longer at unraveling the tangled deaths of Alan the beadle and Henry atte Bridge.

  Kellet’s complaints covered the sound of my entry and approach, so that I stood quite close to the man and heard his words clearly. “Damn him…he’ll pay. An’ the others, too. Damn him. Henry got hinges…I’ll have more’n that. Damn him…he’ll pay…a penny…no, tuppence a month or I’ll see that all know.”

  “All know what?” I asked.

  The priest jerked as if Edmund had boxed his ears. His head snapped back, his eyes opened wide with fear, and he leaped to his feet – a move which surprised me, given the size and apparent affliction of his belly.