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 journey was accomplished in silence, but for the wheezing of the fat priest. But as we came to Bushey Row a question occurred to me.
“What business had Thomas in Alvescot that he would knock me in the head and wish me dead rather than have me know of it?”
Kellet made no reply. He was unaccustomed, I think, to walking so fast. His only sound was to gasp for breath.
“I thought I trailed a poacher,” I continued, “but it seems odd to me that Thomas went to the town rather than the forest around it. ’Twas near midnight.”
Kellet held his silence. This one-sided conversation was becoming tiresome. “Poachers do business in the forest, not in a village. What business had Thomas at midnight in Alvescot?”
“Ask ’im,” the priest wheezed.
“I will. Just thought you might want to provide your version of this tale before I hear from Thomas. A few days in the castle dungeon before I question him will surely loosen his tongue.”
“You’d believe a cotter before a man in holy orders?”
“Depends upon the cotter and the parson. The more I learn of you and Thomas the less likely I am to believe anything either of you say. But I suppose I shall be able to ferret out something like the truth of it.”
“And If I choose to say nothing?”
“Well,” I thought on this for a moment, “you’ve already said much…back in the chapel yard. Lord Gilbert will return from Pembroke soon. Perhaps he will get some truth from you if I fail.”
“I am the bishop’s man. I do not fear Lord Gilbert.”
“You think the Bishop of Exeter will defend you and cross Lord Gilbert? Lord Gilbert has powers to make life unpleasant even for a bishop. What influence have you?”
This was a new and unwelcome thought for the priest. He walked on silently. I thought the contemplation would do him good.
There were few townsmen about so early, but those who were at their business glanced at the priest and me with curiosity in their eyes. A townsman might be out of his bed and at his work before the Angelus Bell, but it was unlikely Lord Gilbert’s bailiff and the priest of St Andrew’s Chapel would be. Unless some unusual circumstance had occurred. The commons are not so doltish as churchmen and gentlemen may believe. Those who watched as Kellet and I strode down the Broad Street to Church Street knew something was amiss.
Thomas de Bowlegh’s cook was at his work. A column of smoke rose from the vicarage chimney into the still air of dawn. So Kellet and I did not wait long after I rapped upon the vicarage door before the vicar’s yawning servant drew it open.
We were invited to warm ourselves before the fire while the servant went to wake his master. He hesitated when I asked him to do this. Some men awaken bright for the new day. Others are cranks until the sun is high and they have broken their fast. Thomas de Bowlegh is among the latter, as the servant well knew, and Kellet and I were about to learn.
I heard the vicar’s feet fall heavily upon the steps leading down from his room. A warning that an unhappy man was about to appear. Amazing how a man’s feet can echo his disposition. I have ever since that day sought to avoid discourse with Thomas de Bowlegh until after the third hour.
The fire and east window combined to provide enough light that the vicar could identify his interlopers. He took a step into the room, glared first at John Kellet, then at me, and said, “Well?”
“No,” I replied. “I am not well. I took two blows across my skull this night, and was dumped in a bed of nettles. In your service.” I can be as churlish as any other. Especially with two tender lumps above my ear and a foul headache.
The vicar’s eyes, drawn near closed in a frown, opened wide at my words. Two benches sat either side of the blaze. I shoved Kellet toward one and motioned the vicar toward the other.
“Sit,” I commanded, “and I will tell you who murdered Alan the beadle and Henry atte Bridge.”