As it was less than half a mile to St Andrew’s Chapel, I set my feet in that direction when I left the mill. I could see the priest there, ask what I might, and return to the mill before the ninth hour. This time I did not linger at the bridge across Shill Brook.
The priest at St Andrew’s Chapel of Beme is a slovenly, unlettered man. He holds his position there only, I suspect, because he will perform the duties of the tiny parish — if parish it could truly be called — for the minimum remittance of one third of the revenues — a requirement laid down by Pope Alexander III 200 years ago. One third of the revenues from a parish so small as that which attended mass at St Andrew’s Chapel was not enough to attract a man who could do better, and any educated cleric could.
Father John Kellet, clerk and priest of St Andrew’s Chapel, had not, I believe, ever been more than ten miles from Bampton, the place of his birth. He had been heard boasting that he had never set foot in Oxford, although I must admit that, in the few conversations I had with the priest, this subject did not arise, and most residents of Bampton and the Weald might make the same claim.
Father Simon Osbern, of the Church of St Beornwald in Bampton, trained John in the priestly duties. But the course of study was too brief for anything but the rudiments. Kellet had no Latin. He merely spoke the words of the mass, extreme unction, and other sacraments by rote. Why, I wonder, must this be so? Can it be that God cannot understand English? Must men worship in a language they do not understand, led by a priest who speaks what he does not comprehend?
Men will say that I spent too much time while a student at Oxford listening to Master John Wyclif. Perhaps this is so. But his arguments made sense to me then and do yet, though I am a peaceful man and chose not to challenge the bishops over the issue.
St Andrew’s Chapel is an ancient structure. It was old when the Conqueror came from Normandy to wrest the kingdom from King Harold. The wall about the churchyard is now tumbled down in places, so that pigs may wander in and root amongst the graves. The absentee rector should see to the mending, but like many in his position, he cares more for his purse and his living than he does for keeping a small chapel in good repair.
Those parts of the wall which yet stand firm are covered in ivy and nettles. Soon this foliage will topple more stones, unless it is uprooted. The rector will not pay to have this done, and John Kellet will do no work which may be avoided. The future of the walls of St Andrew’s Chapel yard seems bleak.
I scanned the building as I approached. It was not so disordered as the wall, but there were slates missing from the roof. I suspected that the worshipers got wet on rainy Sundays.
The chapel is small; no more than twelve paces long and perhaps seven paces wide. So the tower at the west end of the structure is also small, but it is within the tower that John Kellet lives. The room is convenient, I suppose, as well as cheap. When the priest wishes to call his small flock to mass, he has but to walk to the center of his chamber, where the bell rope passes through from floor to ceiling.
Slate shingles on the porch were in poor repair, also, and I noted that the door was beginning to rot at the base as I pushed it open and entered the dim interior of the chapel.
Sunlight slanting through the narrow south windows illuminated dust motes floating like down in the still air. The dust would eventually join the layer of grime which covered the flat surfaces inside the chapel. I ran a finger across a windowsill and left a dark streak in the accumulated dust of many years.
I turned to the stairway which led to the vicar’s room and was about to ascend when I heard the door at the head of the stairs creak open on corroded hinges. The priest had heard me open the door from the porch and was descending to discover who had entered his seldom-visited demesne.
I was again astonished at the girth of John Kellet. I do not understand how a priest who tends such a meager garden can grow so fat. I had apparently interrupted his dinner, for I saw a grease stain on his long tunic and he licked his fingers as he came into view at the foot of the stairs.
The tunic was black, as befits a priest. As he approached I saw that it was made of a soft, fine wool. It was wrinkled and food-stained, but of better quality than the tunic that Thomas de Bowlegh, vicar of a larger church, wore.
“Ah, Master Hugh,” Kellet’s voice echoed off the grey stones of floor and walls. “What…what brings you here this day?”
I wished to return quickly to the miller’s broken arm, so did not squander time with niceties.
“A man died along the path to Bampton yesterday…or perhaps the night before.”
The priest started, and his sleepy, heavy-lidded eyes grew wide.
“Alan, the beadle,” I continued. “Did you know him?”
“Uh…aye, I believe so. Along the path, you say?”
“Aye. Just the other side of the wood beyond the churchyard. Plowmen found him this morning.”
“Did he have lands there?” the priest asked.
“No. He’d gone out to watch and warn Tuesday eve, and never returned.”
The priest pursed his lips. “Tsk,” he muttered. “Such a young man…but death takes us all.”
“Did you hear any strange, unnatural sound Tuesday eve?”
“Why, no. This death, does it trouble you?”
“I think, perhaps. The man’s throat was torn, as if a wild beast had attacked him. His head was broken, I know not how, and his shoes are taken, which no beast would do.”
“A beast, you say?” The priest frowned, and his mouth dropped open for a moment.
“Perhaps. His throat was torn. Fangs or claws might be the cause. Do you know of any wild hounds ranging in this parish?”
Kellet scratched the back of his shaggy head. “I’ve heard of nothin’ like that. ’Course, there is much waste land between here an’ Aston, since the great death. Beasts could prowl there an’ none the wiser.”
“Have any cotters hereabout lost animals recently? Sheep, or even fowl?”
“Oh, a duck or two goes missing every month or so, but I think a fox would do no harm to the beadle.”
“If you learn of evidence that savage beasts have been seen or heard, you must send word to me. It is my duty to keep Lord Gilbert’s lands free of such marauders…if such there be.”
“Mayhap,” the priest said, scratching his scalp again, “wolves have come down from Wales. The winter past was cruel. I have heard that wolves still prowl those untamed lands.”
“Perhaps,” I agreed. Actually, I did not agree. But having no better theory myself, I saw no reason to challenge the point. Certainly there is now, since plague has struck twice, in England much wasteland, where wolves could live and travel unmolested. But would a wolf make his presence in the shire first known by an attack on a man? I have heard tales of wolves, that they travel in packs and are seldom solitary. And they howl. Wolves are not silent creatures. It seemed to me a wolf would announce his presence with the taking of a sheep, or perhaps a pig rooting for last autumn’s acorns in the forest.
“I must return to Bampton. The miller awaits, with a broken arm. But before I go, there is also the matter of the missing shoes. Should you see a man wearing good shoes when he has owned recently only poor ones, send for me. This,” I held out the blue yarn, “was found at the scene of Alan’s death. Does anyone hereabouts wear a garment of this hue?”
Kellet stared at the strand and, I thought, seemed ill at ease. He shifted from one foot to another before he made answer.
“Wold is grown in most every toft,” he commented. “’Twould make a color much like this. But no, I know of no one of this parish who owns a cotehardie or surcoat of this pale blue.”
“Should you see such a garment, call for me at the castle.”