from the new crescent moon and fading twilight left the front of his house in shadow.
“You have news for me?” I asked as the beadle stood.
“Aye…but not as you’d expect, I guess.”
“What, then?”
“Last night, when I was near finished with me rounds, I did as you said an’ walked along t’bank of Shill Brook ’til I was near opposite the hut you spoke of. ’Twas third night I did so.”
“And are there nettles there?”
“Aye,” he said ruefully, “there are.”
“What else did you find?”
“As you thought, Thomas atte Bridge left his hut last night when all was silent an’ dark.”
“And stole across the meadow to his path through the wood to the road and Alvescot,” I completed the beadle’s tale.
“Nay…went t’other way.”
“What other way?” I asked, puzzled.
“Crossed the bridge an’ went through town, quiet like. Moved from one shadow to the next. ’Twas dark last night; no moon.”
“And did he carry with him a sack?”
“Aye, he did. But odd thing is, ’twasn’t empty. Was a lump in the bottom.”
“He did not carry the sack to fetch game, but took something with him from his hut?”
“Aye, so it appeared.”
“Where did he take this stuff in his sack?”
“Went through town on the High Street an’ up Bushey Row to the lane what leads to St Andrew’s Chapel.”
“Did you follow?”
“Aye. Had t’duck into bushes more’n once when I thought he stopped and turned t’listen, to see if he was followed.”
“You think he knew he was seen?”
“Nay.”
“So in the sack he must have carried cords and sticks for new snares,” I guessed. “Did he go into the wood behind the chapel to lay them?”
“Nay. Don’t know what he could’ve been about. Didn’t leave road ’til he was past t’wood, then went through the gate an’ into t’chapel yard.”
This was a new and unforeseen thing. Then I remembered that an earlier beadle had gone down this same path some months before. And that man was surely slain by the brother of the man who now walked the lane late at night. Did they travel to the same place? For the same purpose?
“Did Thomas enter the chapel?”
“Aye, think so. Didn’t get close enough t’see, but heard hinges squeal.”
“Was he long in the chapel?”
“Nay. I thought as how he was in t’chapel I’d hurry to t’yard an’ hide behind t’wall. Maybe I’d hear ’im speak to priest. But he was out near as soon as he was in.”
“And where did he then go?”
“Back to town, same way as he come. Only thing is, I think t’sack was empty. Wasn’t enough light to see well, But t’sack is light-colored, like, so if there’s a lump in the bottom a man can see.”
“So on his way to the chapel Thomas carried a sack with something in it, but ’twas empty when he went to his home?”
“Aye. Went straight to the Weald an’ his own hut an’ shut the door. I watched from near the bridge for a while, but he must’ve gone to ’is bed. Never saw ’im again.”
“You have done well…although I admit I have no guess what it is you have discovered.”
The beadle’s thoughts must have paralleled my own. His next words spoke his suspicion and worry. “Alan was found along t’road to chapel. Did he follow another man with a sack that night, you think?”
“I thought ’twas a beast which drew him from town, when he was first found. But ’twas not. I will tell you a thing which you must tell no other, not even your wife. Not yet. Henry atte Bridge slew Alan.”
“You are sure of this?” John replied with surprise. Even in the dim starlight I saw his eyebrows rise.
“Aye. And now Henry’s brother travels the same lane in the dark of night, and the new beadle sees and follows.”
“Would Thomas do to me as Henry did to Alan?”
“He might, did he know what you have seen.”
“So I must speak of this to no one, not even my wife,” John whispered.
“Aye, until I can sort out this business you must appear ignorant of all we have spoken of this night.”
“I am no scholar,” John chuckled. “Seeming ignorant is a thing I can do well. God has granted me the skill.”
“Do not seek to learn more of Thomas atte Bridge. Complete your rounds tomorrow night as if all was as should be. We must not give Thomas cause to suspect us. I will devise some way to learn what the fellow is about.”
Chapter 15
I rose next morning at dawn and ate my breakfast loaf before the Angelus Bell tolled the beginning of the new day. I had notified the marshalsea that I would need Bruce this day early. He was saddled and waiting when I reached the stables. I tossed a pouch of herbs and surgical implements across his rump and led the old horse across the castle yard to the gatehouse, where Wilfred was about the business of cranking up the portcullis and swinging open the gate as I approached.
I had looked forward to this day for more than a fortnight. Even a man of little wit will understand why this was so. I never before appreciated how slow Bruce’s ambling gait really was. My purpose was to remove the stitches I had used to seam Robert Caxton’s back. But Bruce would not have seemed so plodding had I not another goal: a meal prepared by and in company with a beautiful lass.
It was well that I had business this day and so could not act on what I learned the night before from John Prudhomme. Bruce’s languorous pace gave opportunity to consider options at leisure as I watched the Oxfordshire countryside pass by. Could there be a greener and more pleasant place for a man to live his days? ’Tis not meet to be boastful of such a thing, for God could have set me in a desert, was that His wish. But He did not. For that I must remember to thank Him each day.
In frustration I finally clucked to the old horse and gave him my heels in his ribs. Bruce responded. He broke into a lumbering gallop and I found myself bouncing from the saddle at frequent and regular intervals. How Lord Gilbert, clad in armor, stayed atop Bruce during a charge I know not.
I tugged at the reins and Bruce slowed to his normal ambling walk. We had covered barely a hundred paces at a gallop. Had I allowed Bruce to continue, I would have arrived at Oxford so jostled and out of joint, I would have been of no use to Robert Caxton and his daughter would have thought me a cretin. I have new regard for knights who gallop into battle on ponderous destriers.
Before Bruce clattered across the Oxpens Road Bridge I was convinced I knew what was in Thomas atte Bridge’s sack. The man was a poacher, I was certain of that. And certainly wrong, as I would soon learn.
In the sack which he used to retrieve his booty from the forest he had taken a rabbit or joint of venison to John Kellet. Why he should do so I could not guess. And did his brother, Henry, embark on a similar mission to St Andrew’s Chapel the night Alan the beadle followed him and was slain? Would a man kill to preserve the secret of a gift? He might, was the gift unlawful. Did the priest of St Andrew’s Chapel know the source of the bounty? How could he not, delivered after curfew as it was, when all virtuous men should be abed?
I left Bruce with the stableboy at the Stag and Hounds and set out through the mid-day throng for Holywell Street and Robert Caxton’s shop. Both door and shutters were open this fine day. Kate greeted me. Her father, she
