then moaned softly.
The effect was sudden and gratifying. From my refuge behind the beech tree I watched two shadows stumble quickly toward the wall.
“You said ’e was dead,” the priest hissed. “He’s crawled off somewhere.”
“’E was dead,” came a shaky reply.
I moaned again, a little more loudly this time.
“An’ corpses cry out like that?” Kellet snorted.
I decided that more than a groan might be called for. I whispered, but loudly enough to be heard: “I will be avenged…who is’t troubles my grave?”
Two shadows plunged, heedless of the nettles, over the wall and back to the openness and safety of the chapel yard. I saw John’s teeth as he grinned at the performance. I motioned him to follow, then left the shadow of the tree and approached the wall in a crouch.
“Stay behind,” I whispered, “so you are not seen. Stand beside me upon my signal.”
Kellet and his visitor had slowed their race to escape the wood and were backing slowly across the chapel yard, eyes fixed on the wall and the dark copse beyond. I wish there had been more light. I should like to have seen their eyes when I stood at the wall and appeared, an apparition, as they thought, from the dead.
I moaned once more. The effect had been salubrious before, so I tried it again. The result was remarkably similar. The two men stood agape, too startled to run.
“I will be avenged,” I said again. “And Alan, too.” I pulled John to his feet beside me.
’Twas too dark for us to be identified. They might assume my identity — or that of my specter — at the wall, but they could not see to be sure. They could surely not see that the apparition beside me was the new beadle, not the old.
“You know we cannot pursue you on to consecrated ground,” I hissed loudly. “But we will be avenged.” John stood beside me, nodding vigorously, so that even in the dark his agreement might be seen.
“’Twasn’t me,” Kellet squealed.
“Shut up,” the other cried.
“Why? They’re spirits. They’ll know who ’twas who did for ’em.”
“Then no need to tell ’em.”
“They won’t know I had naught to do with it. ’Twas Henry killed Alan,” the priest blurted.
“And now he lies in his grave,” I murmured. “As you will soon, Thomas atte Bridge.”
“No,” the man stammered, and I knew the beadle was right. It was Thomas there with the priest. I saw his shape take a step away from me and the wall. “You will not take me…you cannot enter here.”
“True,” I said softly, “I cannot enter. And you, you cannot leave…else I will have you.”
Atte Bridge took another step back. Kellet turned from me to his companion and back again. I spoke next to the priest.
“A priest who profits from poaching. Lord Gilbert will find you out, even so I am gone and may not tell him so.”
It was Kellet’s turn to take a step back from the wall.
“’At’s right,” Thomas quaked. “’Twas ’im gained from all.”
I believe it was about that moment that Kellet realized he might deal not with specters but with flesh and blood. “Be silent, you fool,” the priest demanded.
“Nay…I’ll not bear the wrath o’ spirits alone when ’twas you planned all.”
“The wrath of spirits,” I murmured, “is much to be feared. But best fear this priest. When we come for you we may find you among us already.”
I saw atte Bridge turn to Kellet, and realized that the churchyard was not so dark as had been. Dawn was beginning to lighten the sky to the east of the chapel.
“What…what does ’e mean?” Thomas asked the priest.
My next words were a gamble, but one with small risk. “Tell Thomas,” I whispered loudly, “what happened to his brother.”
The priest made no answer.
“What ’appened to me brother?” Thomas asked.
“Tell him,” I sighed. “You know well.”
“Who killed ’Enry? You know an’ ’aven’t told me?”
“He cannot tell,” I hissed.
“Aye,” Kellet agreed. “I cannot tell, for I know not who killed ’im.”
“A lie,” I charged. “You cannot tell for to do so would be to indict yourself.”
“You…?” Thomas exclaimed.
“Nay…he lies,” the priest cried.
“Spirits do not lie,” atte Bridge declared.
“Be silent,” Kellet shouted. “These are not spirits.”
He said no more, for Thomas delivered a blow from his right fist which knocked the corpulent priest to his well-padded rump. He then set about pummeling Kellet about the head so that John and I were able to leap the wall and approach before Thomas knew we were upon him. The beadle was a step behind me, so I did not see him cock his cudgel. But I heard the club as it passed my ear and landed solidly upon Thomas atte Bridge’s head. He fell across the priest’s prone form, and both lay silent and unmoving at our feet.
“Well done,” I complimented John. He, meanwhile, had drawn the club back for another blow, should it be necessary. ’Twas not.
The rotund priest struggled to draw himself from under the comatose cotter. I thought he intended to run, but then he saw the cocked club in the beadle’s hands and thought of a better escape.
“I am the bishop’s man. You have no bailiwick here,” he cried.
“True enough. But when Lord Gilbert learns of this he will have a word with Thomas de Bowlegh. And Henry atte Bridge died in Lord Gilbert’s forest.” I stepped closer to the quaking priest. “That is my bailiwick.”
“Then you must seek Henry’s killer,” Kellet stammered.
“I have…and found him.”
“Have you proofs?”
The priest had me. I was sure ’twas he who lay in ambush with Henry atte Bridge that evening, awaiting my return from Witney. I knew it was he to whom Henry had cried, “He lives.” And I knew the arrows Kellet had intended for me, should I return while ’twas still light enough for their use, had been turned on his companion. The priest surely feared then that I would know ’twas Henry atte Bridge who attacked me, and when pressed, Henry would confess the truth and tell of Kellet’s role in the blackmail which existed in the town, which none had suspected. I suspected all this, but the priest spoke true. I could not prove it.
It was grown light enough that when Thomas atte Bridge twitched at our feet the movement caught our eyes. The beadle had wrapped the rope about his waist and tied it there. I told him to undo it and tie Thomas’ hands behind his back with it and take the fellow to the castle. The cell there had not been used since I came to the town two years before. It would have an inhabitant now.
I demanded of John Kellet that he accompany me to Thomas de Bowlegh’s vicarage. This he was reluctant to do. The priest turned from me to return to the chapel. His cowl presented the most convenient handle to prevent this. I grasped it and twisted the wool tight about his thick neck.
“The sack,” I demanded. “Where is it?”
“S…s…sack?” he spluttered.
“The one Thomas brought this night. Where is it?” I twisted the cowl tighter.
“The porch,” Kellet gasped.
I shoved him before me toward the porch and he pointed out the corner where it lay. I released my hold on Kellet’s cowl, withdrew the sack from its shadowed corner, and emptied it. In the morning light a haunch of venison — no coney — fell out onto the grass of the churchyard.
“Did Thomas set snares for this, or is he accomplished with a bow and arrows…as you are?”
The priest did not reply. I returned the venison to the sack and motioned Kellet to the gate. Perhaps he feared I might again attempt to strangle him. He set out promptly.
The spire of St Beornwald’s Church glowed golden in the rising sun as we approached Bampton. Most of this
