A Corpse at St Andrew's Chapel

by Mel Starr

  Oxford’s streets were crowded. Black-gowned students, set free from study until the new term, elbowed each other through streets and lanes. Late buyers patronized shops before closing. I was become accustomed to the bucolic life of Bampton, but plunging into the noise and smells of Oxford’s streets brought pleasant memories; memories of days when as a student I was concerned only with books and studies and enjoying the life of a fledgling scholar. Days when I had no murders to concern me or poachers to apprehend.

  The porter at New Canterbury Hall recognized me. I was admitted with a smile and a tug of his forelock. He had no great esteem for me, I am sure. But I was a friend of the warden. That made me a man of consequence. If a man cannot achieve fame of his own merit, the next most rewarding thing is to be recognized as a friend of the famous and powerful. As if renown might slough off with recognition.

  Master John’s life turned about study and teaching. Since classes for the term were ended, I thought I might find him in his chamber bent over some tome. So he was.

  I saw him through the small window which looked out from his room to the cloister. If he noted my shadow pass he did not think it important enough to raise his eyes from his book. I knocked on the door and eventually heard his bench scrape back from the table across the stone flags. Eventually. I was interrupting Master John while he was engrossed in some deep study, a thing no man should do lightly. I prayed he would forgive me.

  He did. “’Ah…Hugh…I was about to take supper. Have you eaten? Come in, come in.”

  Wyclif placed a leather strap between the pages of his book to mark his place, drew up a second bench, and invited me to sit.

  “The kitchen will serve soon. A bell will announce supper. Meanwhile, what have you learned of your mysterious deaths in Bampton?”

  I had barely opened my mouth when a tinny bell sounded from across the cloister. “Ah, the cook is ready,” Wyclif said with some sorrow. “We will take our meal, then you will tell me the tale…you will lodge in the college this night, will you not?”

  This was an offer I had hoped for. I readily agreed, and we set off across the cloister for a supper of barley pottage and wheaten bread. Not that I was hungry. But I was of an age wherein I could eat ’til bloated, then consume another meal an hour later. And soup is not a filling dish.

  ’Twas twilight when I returned with Master John to his lodgings. He lit a cresset to ward off the night and begged me tell him of Bampton and its mysteries.

  I admitted that I was no closer to solving the death of Henry atte Bridge than when I was last in Oxford. Then I told him of Thomas atte Bridge and his late visit to St Andrew’s Chapel. Master John caught the parallel with Alan the beadle’s death along the road to the chapel and Henry atte Bridge’s role in it.

  “Tell me, then,” the scholar inquired, “what is it happened the night your beadle was slain?”

  “’Tis my belief Alan had seen Henry atte Bridge travel the road to St Andrew’s Chapel before the night he was slain. But he was not careful in his pursuit. Henry knew he was discovered, and lay in wait for Alan another night, and slew him.”

  “How was this done?” Master John asked, pulling on his beard.

  “I believe Henry hid in the shadow of the hedgerow until Alan was upon him. Then, who can know? Perhaps atte Bridge took a rock from the hedgerow wall and delivered a blow to the beadle’s head as he passed. Or, mayhap there was a struggle, and Henry got hold of Alan’s cudgel and beat him across the head with it. Whatever the source of the blow, it killed Alan. But Henry had planned another stroke.”

  “The wooden block with nails?” Wyclif guessed.

  “Aye. He slashed Alan’s face and arms and neck so ’twould seem some beast had set upon him there in the lane.”

  “But you suspected even when the beadle was first found that this was not so?”

  “Aye. There was not enough blood. Living men bleed much when slashed across the neck. Bampton’s baker was so attacked some days later and nearly lost his life.”

  “You saved him?”

  “I did. A dead man bleeds little, and Alan did not bleed. ’Twas the blow which killed him, not the wounds.”

  “And what of the wolf? You heard it howl, did you not?”

  “I heard something howl.”

  “Not a wolf? Or some other beast?”

  “Nay. A man, I think.”

  “A man? Ah…I see. This same Henry atte Bridge, you think?”

  “Aye. He knew we suspected a beast in Alan’s death. ’Twas what he intended.”

  “So he thought to confirm your suspicion?”

  “He did, and nearly succeeded.”

  “Think you, when he died, he suspected you knew ’twas no wolf attacked the beadle?”

  “He knew I went north that day. He saw me pass the new tithe barn as he worked. He surely guessed what I was about, else he would not have set upon me in the road when I returned.”

  “But perhaps,” Wyclif wondered aloud, “’twas only shoes he thought you would find out.”

  “Would a man strike down another to protect his misgotten shoes?”

  “Ah, I take your point. Was it proved the shoes belonged to the beadle, he could still protest innocence of the death, and who could say otherwise? The fellow surely thought you disbelieved a wolf had done the harm.”

  “Aye. He feared I saw then what I do not see now…or see but through a fog.”

  The scholar was silent for a moment.

  “There was an accomplice,” he asserted. “Why else a man waiting while you were attacked on the road?”

  “An accomplice who aided in the murder of the beadle, or who knew of the deed when ’twas done and past?”

  “What matter?” Wyclif replied. “What matters is what the man did with his knowledge…and perhaps what he yet does.”

  “He struck down Henry atte Bridge when Henry failed to kill me, for fear I would know who fell upon me, and when I might confront Henry he would entangle this other, whoso he may be, in the business.”

  “Just so,” Wyclif nodded, his beard bouncing against his robe.

  “The dead lamb; we watched over it two nights and saw nothing.”

  “The fellow atte Bridge again, you think?”

  “’Twould make a kind of sense. He wished to put suspicion on a wolf, not a man. And when the hounds were put to the dead animal they knew what we did not…they scented a man, not a beast.”

  “The fellow would have used the block to tear the lamb’s throat, then slice off a joint for himself to make it seem a wolf had dined,” the scholar mused.

  “And I was taken in. What a simpleton I am!”

  “Nay, Hugh. Do not berate yourself so. We must all make judgment with the facts we have.”

  “But I had facts I did not read aright.”

  “You chose the simplest interpretation of the evidence at hand. This is always best.”

  “Is it so?”

  “Aye.” Wyclif reached for my arm. “’Tis not good for a man to seek complexity and falsehood where none may be. If the plainest answer prove mistaken, as now seems, time enough then to seek knots to untangle.”

  “And there are knots yet,” I agreed.

  “You think all these strange events be related?”

  “I thought not. I sought the simplest explanation, as you advise.”

  “But such does not serve, eh?”

  “Too many knots. Who set out for Alvescot with a sack over his shoulder? Was it Thomas atte Bridge? He carried a sack to St Andrew’s Chapel. And who struck me down at Alvescot Church? The same man who carried the sack? Thomas atte Bridge? Or perhaps the man who put an arrow into Henry atte Bridge’s back? And there are other knots in Bampton yet to be unraveled, of which you know not.”

  “Such a town! I am pleased I live in a quiet, gentle place.”

  “Oxford? Where scholars dispute even a comma in the scriptures.”

  “Aye, we dispute. But we do not go about clubbing one another across the skull or tearing
out men’s throats.”

  “Hah…I remember my first year at Baliol and the St Scholastica Day Riot.”

  “Hmm. You have a point. But that was about an important matter…so the students thought. The price of watered ale…or was it wine?

  “What are these other knots which bind your town?” Wyclif continued.

  I told him of the baker, the baker’s wife, the smith, and John Kellet. I told him of finding Kellet at the chapel after Edmund had struck him, and his words when he thought no man heard: “Henry got hinges…I’ll have more’n that. A penny, no, tuppence a month or I’ll see that all know.”

  The scholar’s brows lifted and furrowed as I told of these events. “I wonder what it is that your priest may tell to all men? And why his silence may be worth tuppence each month to the smith?”

  “I think he knows of Margery’s infidelity, and Edmund cuckolding the baker.”

  “I wonder how he would know this…the confessional, you think? If so, ’tis a grievous sin to tell of it. And what of the hinges? Was it Henry atte Bridge he spoke of?”

  “Aye. I did not tell you of the nails which Henry used to slash Alan’s throat. They came from a set of hinges Edmund made for Henry’s door.”

  “Iron hinges for a cotter’s door?”

  “Aye. The priest’s words are telling, are they not? I think Henry got his hinges without payment.”

  Wyclif scratched his scalp for a moment. “Which means, perhaps, that Henry knew of the smith and the baker’s wife also…else why a gift from the smith, if not to purchase silence?”

  “These are my thoughts,” I agreed. “But how would atte Bridge know of the liaison, and how would the priest know what Edmund had paid for Henry’s silence?”

  “Ah, we have many questions this night and few answers. But take heart, Hugh, for the questions have become wiser than those we might have asked a month ago.”

  “Aye. But the wisdom has come in part through a stroke against my head. I have enough wisdom if that be how I must gain more.”

  Wyclif rose from his bench and went to a chest in a shadowy corner of his chamber. The lid creaked open and I watched him fumble about in the dim depths of the box. ’Twas too dark to see what the scholar did there, but soon I heard an exclamation of success and saw him stand and turn from the chest. He held some object to him, but ’twas too dark to see then what it was.

  It was a dagger. Wyclif laid it on the table before me. “You have found dangerous work,” the scholar commented, “but I see only a dinner knife in your belt.”

  I was surprised that an Oxford master should own such a weapon. Wyclif must have seen this in my eyes, for he explained how he came by the dagger.

  “I found this in a gutter outside Baliol College one morning during the St Scholastica Riot. I have kept it since, not for my own need, but so long as it lay in my chest it could do no harm. Now I think it time to put it to use.”

  “But what of scripture? We are commanded not to kill.”

  “Nay, Hugh, ’tis a mistranslation. God’s word tells us not to do murder. Is there not a difference between murder and killing?”

  “Aye…I suppose. But are we not to turn the other cheek?”

  “We are, when another insults us with a slap. But when some miscreant would carve flesh from my cheek or another man’s with his blade, I think our Lord would not require me to permit the fellow to do so. If murder is evil, as it is, it is a man’s duty to stop it when he can…even when the murder be his own.”

  I took the dagger and slid it under my belt.

  Wyclif gazed at his dark window. “We must sleep on these things and talk more in the morning. Perhaps God will grant a dream to resolve these matters.”

  He did not. Oh, He granted a dream, true enough. But not of Bampton and poachers and murderers. ’Twas of Kate Caxton I dreamt. And a delightful vision it was. No wonder. So when Master John asked me in the morning if some new insight had come to me in the night, I replied truthfully that I was as confused as before. It was well he did not ask of my dreams. I would have had to lie. What I dreamed was not such that it could be told a scholar.

  We broke our fast with loaves hot from the kitchen and ale. The ale was not fresh, and near sour. Rather like my mood. For this Master John apologized. For the ale, I mean, not my mood.

  “Fare you well, Hugh. When you have solved these mysteries I would hear of it.”

  “You may credit too much, Master John. You assume I will find a murderer and a poacher.”

  “I am a man of faith. What is it the Holy Scripture says of faith? ’Tis ‘the substance of things hoped for, the evidence of things not seen.’”

  “Aye, well, there is much I do not see and therefore must hope for.”

  “Because there is evidence not yet seen does not mean you will never see it. As the apostle wrote, ‘now we see through a glass darkly, but then, face to face.’”

  “The glass is surely dark. That much is true.”

  “Be of good cheer, Hugh. You are too solemn. You think too much of failure. Look rather at your success. All men fail on occasion. ’Tis our nature. Only the Lord Christ was perfect in all things. And consider that what seems failure this day may become success tomorrow or next day. You were much perplexed about the bones found in the castle cesspit, were you not?”

  “Aye.”

  “But time and wit found the answer.”

  “And perhaps the grace of God, who looked on my feeble effort and chose to lead me through the maze.”

  “He does that, when we ask. Even, betimes, when we do not think to ask.”

  The scholar’s words brought to mind the times I sought guidance. I nodded agreement. It is difficult to disagree with Master John.

  “So before you are off to Bampton let us beseech God to grant you wisdom and success in this business.”

  Perhaps I expected a scholar’s prayer to be filled with flowery language and erudite references. Master John spoke as if a third man sat with us in his chamber. A friend. A friend with authority, to be sure, but a beloved companion, rather than a great lord at whose feet we must tremble.

  Wyclif’s prayer requested two things: that God would grant me wisdom to find truth, and courage to do truth. What more does any man need? A man may want much more than these. I want more. But my needs and my wants, Master John saw, were different matters.

  I breathed “Amen” along with Master John when he finished his petition. And silently added a request for one of my wants: a good wife. I admit it; this request accompanied an image in my mind’s eye of Kate Caxton. A year before the image would have been Lady Joan Talbot. I was startled to consider that Lady Joan had not entered my thoughts for many weeks. Since near the time I met Kate.

  How many other young men, I wonder, have breathed a similar prayer with the stationer’s daughter in mind? They cannot all be answered. Well, yes, they will be; but the answer for most will be “No.” Will my plea be among those? It surely was when I made similar appeal to God regarding Lady Joan.

  A want? No, a need. God himself decreed that it is not good for a man to live alone and so made a helpmeet for him. I must adjust my thinking and my prayers and request our Lord that he provide for my need, not merely for my desire.

  Chapter 16

  Bruce neighed and stamped his great hooves when I approached his stall behind the Stag and Hounds. At home in Bampton the old horse was put out to grass in the west meadow most days. No doubt he found his stay in Oxford boring; the day spent staring at stable walls of wattle and daub.

  Bruce’s iron-clad hooves echoed loudly as we clattered across the Oxpens Road Bridge. In the water meadow to the west of the river teams of men moved across the field, scythes swinging rhythmically as they worked at hay-making. Behind the men women and older children followed, raking and turning the new-cut hay so it would dry evenly. This was a good year for hay-making. There would be fodder for beasts next winter, so long as the rains did not rot the hay on the ground before it could be dried and sta
cked.

  This scene was repeated at Aston. There the meadows were cut and the scythe work near done for the day when Bruce ambled past. Villeins were stacking hay on their scythes to carry off for their own animals. A curious custom, unknown in Lancashire, from whence I come. Here in the south of England a man may carry off so much of the lord’s hay as he may stack on his scythe when the day’s work is done. But if the scythe or hay touch the ground the hay be forfeit. I watched Lord Doilly’s reeve as he watched to see no hay grazed the ground. Some men staggered from the meadow with truly astonishing mounds of hay heaped upon their scythes.

  As I completed my journey I shifted in the saddle so as to bring a different portion of my rump in contact with the hard leather. The movement brought the point of the dagger in contact with my leg. ’Twas too dark when Master John gave it to me to see it well, and I’d not taken time to examine it in the morning. I did so as Bruce shuffled the last short distance from Aston to Bampton.

  The blade was well kept and sharp, and near as long as my forearm from elbow to wrist. No jewels ornamented the hilt. This was not a rich gentleman’s weapon. But a coil of bronze wire circled the haft. This was decorative more than useful. The weapon was perhaps the property of some merchant’s son. It suited my station and need. I slid it back under my belt, came near to pricking my thigh, and resolved to see the castle harness-maker about a sheath for the weapon.

  The spire of the Church of St Beornwald is visible even before one reaches Aston. I enjoy my travels, especially when a conversation with Master John Wyclif – or Kate Caxton – is the purpose. But each time I approach Bampton and see that stolid spire I am reminded of what a pleasant place it is.

  Ah, you say, but what of murderers and poachers and those who attack a man in the night? I suppose most towns have their miscreants. Else the king would need no sheriffs and lords no bailiffs. Bampton has its share of good men, as well. Hubert Shillside, John Prudhomme, John Holcutt, and Lord Gilbert himself. And good women, too: Matilda, Alan’s widow, the child Alice, and until she became the Lady de Burgh, Lady Joan, who once mended the torn hem of my cloak, unhindered by her station – though her brother, I think, thought it unseemly.