My head was aching again when I completed the return journey to the castle. Valets were preparing the hall for dinner, for which I had little appetite. I went to my chamber and mixed a draught of ground willow bark and hemp seeds in a mug of ale.
Dinner this day included a first remove of coney pie, as if the cook wished to mock my inability. I could not prove a poacher. I could not find a murderer. I could not find a wolf, was there a wolf to find. Nor could I find a reason why Henry atte Bridge would slay Alan the beadle. But he did. Of this I was certain. ’Twas the only sure thing in my life. Aye, I could not find a wife, either.
I mixed no lettuce in my ale, but the willow bark and hemp seeds, my lack of sleep, and food in my belly all combined. I went to my chamber thinking to rest briefly. I did not awaken until I heard through my closed door valets once again setting tables on trestles for supper.
I arose from my bed much refreshed. And for this meal there was a pike and roasted capon. No venison. No rabbit. My appetite returned.
My afternoon sleep was so deep I thought it might rob me of slumber that night. Not so. I climbed to the parapet and walked the castle wall ’til Venus appeared over the treetops to the west. Below me the marshalsea enlargement proceeded well. The new stables would be complete when Lord Gilbert returned to take up residence. But little else was well. Failure gnawed at me. I descended the steps to the inner yard, watched as Wilfred barred the gate and cranked down the portcullis, then went to my chamber.
I was sure that my heavy thoughts, combined with a long nap that day, would deny me rest. But perhaps the hemp and willow bark were yet effective. I slept soundly until from the church spire I heard the Angelus Bell announce the arrival of the feast day of Corpus Christi.
The procession began at St Beornwald’s Church at the third hour. Thomas de Bowlegh, by virtue of his age and tenure at St Beornwald’s, led the vicars, clerks and townsmen. He held the consecrated loaf high and set off down Church View Street for the marketplace. This could not have been an easy task for a man of his years. Try walking about for an hour with both hands held high above your head.
I followed, as was my duty. A duty both to God and to Lord Gilbert. It is right and proper to honor the Son of God for deigning to become a man and dwell among us. And Lord Gilbert’s representative must set an example.
But as I marched my mind returned to a day when as a student I attended a lecture given by Master John Wyclif. He remarked that no pope or bishop ever thought to assert that the host became human flesh as of our Lord until the Lateran Council a century and a half past. Nor did the church require a spoken confession of sins to a priest before that council. But that is another matter.
Master John was no Donatist, however. He did not teach that a sacrament was vain was it administered by a sinful priest. Rather, Master John teaches that the sacrament is from the hand of God Himself, not from any “cursed man.” This may not be Donatism, but is enough to raise the ire of bishops. If a sacrament is from God, what need of the intermediary hand of a man? And if it be not the blessing of a priest which turns bread to flesh, what does? Nothing, I believe Master John would reply. I am inclined to agree with him. Do not tell the bishops.
A band of players new arrived for the feast day had set up a stage at the eastern edge of the marketplace. After dinner I wandered back to the town to watch the drama. ’Twas a portrayal of the life of Christ, first presented, I was told, many years ago at York, before the great cathedral there. I thought the performance appropriate to the day.
The players recounted a story I knew well. I found myself watching the crowd of onlookers more than the stage. There was as much drama there as any actor could produce. They cheered Christ when he healed the lame, and hissed Pilate for his crime.
They wept with Mary as our Lord was nailed to the cross, and roared as the stone rolled magically from the tomb and our risen Lord departed his sepulcher. The actors gave a good performance. The residents of Bampton were magnificent.
When the play was done and the crowd dispersed I made my way to Rosemary Lane and the home of John Prudhomme. I found the beadle in his toft, tending his onions and turnips. He stood and stretched when he saw me approach.
“Master Hugh…have you news of a poacher?”
“Aye, I think so. But I will need more evidence before I can charge him at hallmote.”
“And you wish me to provide it?” the beadle grinned.
“Aye.”
“Who is the man?”
“Thomas atte Bridge. Do you know him?”
“Him of the Weald? His brother slain in the forest?”
“The same.”
“Them of the Weald are the bishop’s men.”
“Aye. But if he takes Lord Gilbert’s game he’ll face Lord Gilbert’s justice.”
“You want me to watch the Weald as well as town after curfew?”
“Aye. Thomas atte Bridge lives in the second hut on the west side of the lane. It can be easily seen from the bridge across Shill Brook. But so will you, should you watch from the bridge. Best make your way down the stream and watch from the opposite bank. You’ll be lost in the thickets there.”
“An’ among t’nettles, too,” the beadle grimaced.
“It will be worth a few stings to you if you help me prove the fellow’s guilt.”
“And what if I prove his innocence?”
“Small chance of that, I think, for early yesterday morn, while you and others of the town lay yet in your beds, I followed the scent of roasting meat to his hut.”
John nodded in agreement. “Where would he find flesh to roast this season?”
“Aye. And the man you saw crossed the meadow from the Weald into the west wood.”
“He did,” the beadle confirmed.
“If we are alert, and do not give Thomas cause to suspect we know of his work, we will have him.”
“Be he the man who attacked you at Alvescot Churchyard, he is surely on guard already. Else why cross the meadow and lose himself in the wood rather than make his way along the road?”
“Aye, he is some worried already. But not so much that he has lost his taste for Lord Gilbert’s game, I think. And this is why we shall catch him. It may be difficult to begin a transgression. But even more difficult to abandon a sin and the reward it brings.”
“Aye,” John smiled. “If I knew of a way to put a haunch of venison on my table this eve I should be loath to give up the deed what put it there.”
“Just so. Greed has damaged many men, lords and commons. It will, soon or late, betray Thomas atte Bridge, I think.
“You need not be much entangled in this business,” I continued, “beyond observing who is about at night. Should you see Thomas atte Bridge — or any other man — set out for Alvescot and the forest to the west, send your wife next day to Wilfred, the porter. She must tell him to give me a message. She should say you are ill and cannot leave your bed to watch and warn. I will leave the castle at curfew to take your place and meet you here, before your house, to hear what you have seen.”
I am not a superstitious man, but the next day was Friday, the thirteenth day of June. I had no wish to test fate, so abjured the oaken arms of the tree along the Alvescot road where I had spent a fruitless night.
I hoped each day to receive from Wilfred the message that John Prudhomme was ill. Three days later, Monday afternoon, Wilfred stopped me as I passed the gatehouse and told me the beadle was too ill to perform his duty that evening.
“Hmmm…I will see to it myself, be his illness brief. You must open the gate and portcullis for me at midnight, when I return.”
Venus again hung over the forest, a dot of light in the darkening sunset, when I bid Wilfred good eve and set out with the ash pole for Mill Street and the town. I did not expect to need the club, but preparation is a great part of any victory. And if curious eyes should see me cross Shill Brook, they would see also the pole and be assured I had armed myself for watch and warn. They would not think a staff necessary for consulting with John Prudhomme.
I found the beadle sitting on a bench at his door. In the dark I nearly missed him, for what little light came
