A cold, misty rain began to fall as I approached the castle. John Holcutt would see little work done this day. In the meadow west of the castle Lord Gilbert’s cattle bunched together as if the compact herd might drive off the chill and wet. As I passed under the portcullis Wilfred the porter saw me pass his post and called after me.
“Master Hugh! Father Thomas’ clerk was here but a short time ago. The vicar wishes for you to attend him…when you have leisure.”
I thanked the porter for this announcement and turned from the gatehouse to make my way to the town. The truth was, I had much leisure on such a day, although it was also true I would prefer to spend it in my chamber. I might call for a fire to be laid in my hearth. Perhaps, with good fortune, the comely Alice might be sent to perform the task.
I thought on that agreeable scene while I crossed the bridge over Shill Brook — I did not pause to examine the current this day — and into the town. The vicarage, that occupied by Thomas de Bowlegh, was north of St Beornwald’s Church on Laundell’s Lane, so I wrapped my cloak snug about me to ward off the wet and chill and hurried up Church View. I saw no other soul about. Such a day would be expected and considered mild in February. But April is not to deal so with men, and we take such weather as a kind of betrayal. Smoke drifted heavily in the cold mist from chimneys and gable vents. The burghers and townsmen of Bampton had no wish to leave their firesides this day. Nor did I.
After much thumping on the vicarage door that heavy oaken portal finally opened. The vicar’s hearing grew weaker each year. Soon, I think, he must give up hearing confession, or, in order to be heard the penitents will need to shout so that the whole town will know of their misdeeds.
“Ah…Master Hugh. I am sorry to bring you out on such a day, but we — Father Simon and Father Ralph and I — are in agreement that the business of Henry atte Bridge must be speedily resolved.”
I tried to make my face blank while the vicar spoke. I knew where this statement might lead and had no wish to go there. Father Thomas surely suspected this, and was prepared.
A great fire burned on the vicarage hearth. He drew me to it and bid me be seated on a bench placed close before the blaze.
“John!” the vicar thundered through an open doorway to a servant. “Bring wine.”
Wine, not ale. Surely the vicars of the Church of St Beornwald wished something important of me. Thomas spoke of the intemperate weather while the servant filled our cups with malmsey, but when the man departed — to listen behind the door, I’m sure — he came readily to the point.
“The bishop of Exeter has no bailiff for his lands in Bampton…as you know.”
I did.
“Edwin Crank serves as reeve, and serves well, but the bishop expects us, the vicars, to do the work of bailiff. As there be three attached to one church [An unusual practice. I was much surprised to learn of it when I first came to serve Lord Gilbert.], he assumes we will find time among us to deal with manor business.”
I made no reply. The vicar had asked no question of me yet, and I was not eager to discover what was desired of me. Rather, I knew what was wanted, but had no wish to hear my suspicion confirmed or ease the vicar’s task.
Father Thomas was silent, sipping his wine and watching me over the rim of his cup. He hoped, I think, for my sympathy for his overworked state. I savored the wine and held my tongue. I did not intend to make this easy for him. I regretted this attitude later. It is not seemly for a Christian man to interpose impediments to those who seek his aid.
“There is some business,” he continued, “for which we three are unsuited.” Bowlegh peered at me over his cup, searching for agreement. I sipped my wine and offered none.
“The murder of Henry atte Bridge…one or more of us must forsake his duties to God and the Church of St Beornwald to seek a killer. This will put great burdens on the other and the clerks to maintain church offices, do you not agree?”
“I think seeking a murderer might be considered by God as duty to him,” I replied.
“Ah…yes…surely. But all men have duties to God, and those obligations differ according to our station and competence.”
Father Thomas had laid his snare well. I could not disagree.
“You have displayed much competence,” he continued, “in discovering miscreants. The matter of the bones found in Lord Gilbert’s cesspit, and the disappearance of Sir Robert Mallory and his squire. You found the truth of that business.”
“After I nearly caused an innocent man to hang from the gibbet at Oxford Castle,” I reminded him.
“But you corrected the error and discovered the truth. We — Father Simon and Father Ralph and I — wish your aid in this matter of Henry atte Bridge.”
The vicar continued quickly, before I had time to object. “We thought to send a clerk to Lord Gilbert at Pembroke, seeking his permission for you to employ your time in this matter, but wished to sound you out first.”
So the vicars were prepared to go over my head, and Father Thomas was tactfully advising me so.
“It may be that the killer is one of Lord Gilbert’s men,” Father Thomas continued, “in which case the investigation would be your bailiwick. As Lord Gilbert’s lands hereabouts are more extensive than the bishop’s properties, and his villeins and tenants more numerous, it seems likely to us that this may be so. Do you not agree?”
I did agree. His logic was good, and he knew Lord Gilbert would see the matter as he did. And the malmsey was very good; dark and red and not near to being vinegar. But I did try to press a hard bargain.
“You must permit me to seek answers where I will,” I demanded. “The bishop’s men must know they are to cooperate.”
“They will be so instructed,” he nodded.
“And if this inquiry takes too much time from my duties for Lord Gilbert you must permit me to relinquish it.”
But Father Thomas can drive a hard bargain, as well. “I would be sorry if you gave up the charge. Should it become known that you struggled with Henry atte Bridge on the road, and, but for his killer, of course, was the last man to see him alive…”
I saw his point, which foolishly I had not before. Circumstances made me suspect in the death — to those who might learn of my fight along the Witney road. I had told only Thomas de Bowlegh of this incident. Perhaps he told the other vicars. Regardless, his point was well made and I took it readily.
“So to exonerate myself I must find him who did that for which otherwise I might be blamed?”
The vicar nodded. “I know you, Master Hugh, and your skills. You have saved men’s lives and freed them from pain in the months since Lord Gilbert brought you here. I do not believe you capable of chasing a man down and plunging a dagger into his back.”
“Not even a man who attacked me?”
“Not even such a man. But others may not think so…so rationally, should your brawl with Henry atte Bridge become known.”
“No one knows of it but you…and Henry’s killer.”
“There are others…a few.”
In answer to my scowl he continued quickly, “I spoke of the attack to Father Ralph and Father Simon when we discussed what must be done.”
“Will they hold their tongues?
“Father Simon will, I think. I am not so sure of Father Ralph.”
“Then you must speak to him, and soon. If knowledge is abroad that I fought with Henry atte Bridge, then even if I discover his murderer there will be men who believe I have accused another to free myself of guilt. Justice would be charged as injustice.”
The vicar’s face fell. He had not thought of this. He looked to the fire and rearranged coals with a poker before he spoke again.
“I should have kept silent,” he agreed finally. “But I thought you might resist my request.”
“And wished to apply some gentle pressure to see that I would not?” I completed his thought.
“Aye. I wished confirmation from Father Simon and Father Ralph that my path was a wise one.”
“Did they agree?”
