took his empty cup, another placed a bow into his hands, and a third brought forth a quiver of arrows and a glove.
The priest of St Andrew’s Chapel held the bow comfortably, notched an arrow, grinned at his audience, then drew the bowstrung across his expansive belly. I watched in amazement as the parson took careful aim and loosed the arrow. He missed.
Much hooting and laughter followed. Kellet grew red in the face. He drew another arrow from the quiver, notched it and drew the bow. No smile played about his lips; they were drawn tight across his teeth. His audience grew silent, awaiting the arrow’s release. When it came all heads turned to follow its flight. The arrow struck the center of the butt with a solid “thwack.”
Cheers and merry exclamations followed, subsiding only upon the release of the third arrow, which also found its mark. The priest launched twelve arrows at the target that day and missed but twice. He left the mark, the quiver empty, with many clapping him on the back and complimenting his eye.
Hubert Shillside had attended the competition this day, perhaps to inspire his son, whose competency surely needed encouragement. I saw the man leaning against the castle wall, watching with his son, as John Kellet sent arrow after arrow thudding into the butt.
I sauntered through the crowd to where Shillside and his son were propped against the wall. “A surprising performance,” I said.
But the haberdasher did not seemed over-surprised, although he did agree with me. “Aye…he missed twice. Lack of practice, surely. And a strange bow.”
I was taken aback by this remark until I understood that the astonishing thing about Kellet’s performance was not that he had hit the target ten times, but that he had missed twice.
“Before he took holy orders he’d not have missed once at twice the distance,” Shillside remarked by way of explanation.
“He was skillful as a younger man?”
“Few could best him.”
“I have not seen him at the mark, or even in attendance, before this day.”
“’Tis said he was warned away. The vicars of St Beornwald’s Church thought it unseemly for a man who chose a vocation to disport himself so of a Sunday afternoon.”
“They will not be pleased, then, to learn of his lapse this day.”
“If they are told,” Shillside winked. “All here know the tale, but I think none would see poor John come to grief for a few arrows on a pleasant afternoon.”
“Poor John?”
“Aye. He has but a thin living from that chapel, and no kin since his mother died…and that many years past.”
“How did he come to be at the chapel?”
“He was left an orphan. Father Simon was new at St Beornwald’s Church, from Exeter. He took ’im in as servant an’ made place for ’im. John was quick an’ soon learned the words of holy office, though he could not read, of course. A great mimic, ’e was. When St Andrew’s Chapel fell vacant the rector could find none willing to accept so slender a living. Kellet volunteered. Was made clerk one day and ordained the next.”
“He seems adequately rewarded for his exile there,” I commented. “He has missed few meals of late.”
“Aye,” Shillside agreed. “There is that. Does well from confessions, ’tis said.”
“I have heard he does not assign a rigorous penance.”
“So ’tis said. An’ there be those willing to pay a priest well for his…uh, understanding.”
“And the vicars of St Beornwald’s? They are not troubled?”
“Who can say? If they saw him removed, who could be sent to replace him? An’ as ’tis, he lives without taking much of the bishop’s purse. I think our vicars know they would not have the good bishop’s ear should they complain. ’Tis a sleeping dog best left to lay as is.”
“It was while he served Father Simon that he learned to handle a bow?”
“Nay. As a tyke he’d follow his father of a Sunday afternoon. Odo Kellet was skilled. He was at Crecy. John practiced with a bow ’is father made for ’im when he was but a wee lad.”
“And when he went to Father Simon he was allowed to continue his practice?”
“Aye. War with France meant all who could must learn the use of the longbow. ’Twas not ’til he went to the chapel he was pressed to give it up.”
“He has kept his skill.”
“Aye. An’ he enjoyed that bit of showin’ off, I’d say.”
I had not noticed that during my conversation with Hubert Shillside his son had wandered off. But as I turned to survey the departing archers and spectators (there was practice only this day, no competition; I did not wish to be too free with Lord Gilbert’s purse), I saw the youth approach the gatehouse. Alice atte Bridge stood there, her back against the sun-warmed stones, smiling shyly at his approach.
She could do worse. Much worse. The youth had two sisters only. He would inherit his father’s business as Bampton town’s haberdasher. And I knew Alice well enough to know that Will Shillside could do worse, also. Although whether or not the coroner would agree to his son’s choice was another matter. Alice could bring nothing but herself to such a union. That, for most men of means — and their sons — was not enough.
I supped that evening on cold beef and wheaten bread, then walked the parapet until the last gleam of twilight faded beyond the Ladywell and the forest. I reflected on the day, and whether or not I had learned a thing important to the mysterious death of Henry atte Bridge. Only a man of suspicious nature would think so. John Kellet was skilled with a bow and wore black wool. Was this enough to cause me to suspect him a murderer? And he knew the dead man, for Henry had often, it seems, used his confessional.
But would the fat priest hide along a dark road in company with a man who wished me harm? I had no quarrel with John Kellet. Would he then kill Henry atte Bridge for his failure? This seemed not credible. I put it out of my mind and sought my chamber and bed.
Before he departed Bampton for Goodrich and Pembroke, Lord Gilbert had given instructions for the enlargement of the marshalsea. While he resided at another place the stables at Bampton were quite large enough. But like most of his class he thought himself a connoisseur of horses and never seemed to have enough palfreys for his wife and son, coursers for the hunt, or dexters for the list and war.
Lord Gilbert went to Goodrich for Christmas, as was his custom, then on to Pembroke for St David’s Day. This holy day is observed only in Wales, and Lord Gilbert desires to be present should Welsh enthusiasm get out of hand. He planned to return to Bampton by Lammas Day and expected the enlarged marshalsea to be ready for his return. In early November I had sent to Alvescot for the verderer and told him of the beams I would require. He and his sons were to cut and hew them over the winter and bring them, with sufficient coppiced shoots for wattle, to the castle before Whitsuntide. As Lammas Day was but nine weeks hence I thought it wise to seek the man and assure myself that timbers were cut and shaped and ready for transport to the castle.
Anxiety overtook me as I mounted Bruce and set off through the forest for Alvescot and the forester’s hut. It was not the forest which caused my unease, although the last time I rode Bruce through a wood I was attacked. Rather, I worried that Gerard had been lax and had not prepared the beams, or was just now doing so. I had directed the fellow to cut the trees in the autumn and winter, when they would be dry of sap. If he was just now toppling them he might have the beams hewn and ready by Whitsuntide but they would be green. As they dried they would twist. Lord Gilbert’s new stable wall would not be plumb, nor the roof tree true. Lord Gilbert is a particular man. Even his marshalsea must be orderly though none but horses and grooms dwell therein.
’Twas Rogation Day when I rode out to Alvescot. I knew well the limits of Lord Gilbert’s manor, and saw little need to walk the countryside beating the bounds of Bampton with willow branches. As I approached the hamlet I heard its residents a ganging, marching about the limits of the village behind Walter de Notyngham, the priest. A bell rang incessantly, and small boys yelped as they were bounced off trees and posts and rocks to help them memorize the village limits.
As I entered the village from the east I heard the marchers to the north and saw their banners beyond St Peter’s Church as they trailed priest and cross. A shriek then punctuated the general commotion and as I drew near I saw a youth pulled dripping from the chilly waters of Shill Brook. Doubtless he would not forget that the stream, much reduced here upstream from Bampton, formed the northern boundary of the village.
I tied Bruce to a post of the lych gate and waited by the churchyard wall until the marchers completed the
