“John Kellet,” I began, “is in the hands of the vicars of St Beornwald’s Church. No doubt the bishop’s court will see to this business and I will be called to testify. Will you have me learn of your crimes from the priest, or will you tell me?”
Thomas stood silent before me, clenching and releasing his fists, considering his options, which were few. It must be a family inheritance, for Henry clenched his fists when pressed in much the same way.
“Ain’t no poacher,” he finally muttered.
“The venison in the sack you would have given to John Kellet was surely Lord Gilbert’s deer. I think I followed you to Alvescot three weeks past, where you gave me a blow from behind the churchyard wall. You were seeing to your snares, I think.”
“Never set no snares,” Thomas replied. I watched the muscles of his jaw twitch as he spoke.
“You used bow and arrows? In the dark?” I found this dubious. The man I followed to Alvescot carried no bow.
“Never kilt none o’ Lord Gilbert’s deer, w’snare or arrows.”
“Ah…but you do not deny whacking me across the head. And you would have made of me a corpse at St Andrew’s Chapel. You had a haunch of venison there, and a sack. The same sack as at Alvescot, I’d guess. You wished me dead to hide something, but not poaching?” I scoffed.
Thomas had been inspecting his feet during this conversation. But now he looked up, first at me, then to the door, where Uctred stood frowning, then to the walls of his cell, and then back to me. He would have glowered again, I think, but to do so requires some confidence and his was melting away like an April snowfall. He was trapped, and he knew it.
“You and your brother took meat to John Kellet. And late at night, so none would know. Fair dealings may be done in the day. Only mischief need be done in the dark.”
The logic of this remark seemed to strike home. Thomas looked down and studied the ground at his feet again.
“You sought to pay Kellet for some service, I think. A debt. To save his own skin he’ll tell the bishop’s men a tale to benefit him, not you. He will surely lay blame at your feet where he can. You will already be charged with poaching and venturing murder. What new indictment will come when John Kellet absolves himself of guilt?”
Atte Bridge did not respond for a moment. He was thinking. I assume. Thinking was an exercise Thomas atte Bridge tended to avoid. Doing so now was surely a new experience. Anything done for the first time will likely be done slowly. I gave him time to ponder his options. When he finally spoke several riddles were explained.
“’Twas Walter killed the deer. Not me.”
“Walter?” I scratched my head, trying to match the name with a face. I did, to my vexation.
“The verderer’s son?”
“Aye.”
“Did Gerard know of this?”
“Nay…don’t think so. I was always t’come late for my share.”
“Your share? Why should Walter bestow his ill-got venison on you?”
Thomas stared again at the walls of his cell for a moment, wondering, I think, should he say more. I thought I could guess the answer, but better it come from Thomas than from me.
“Blackmailed ’im,” he finally muttered.
“You learned of his poaching Lord Gilbert’s deer? He who was to protect the forest against such a thing? How? Did you hear rumor and follow him about?”
More silence followed, and another question came to me: “And what had the curate to do with this that you would give him a portion of venison?”
“Confession,” he whispered.
“Confession? You confessed this sin to Kellet and he demanded a share as penance?” I was incredulous.
“Nay,” Thomas spat. “Might be as ’ow that’s what ’e’ll say, but ’twas ’is plan from t’first.”
“Then what had confession to do with this?”
“Walter confessed to Kellet,” Thomas admitted. “Walter didn’t want to confess to the priest at Alvescot. Kellet an’ Henry was old friends. The priest told me brother to blackmail Walter for some of the meat, an’ they’d share. Henry went to Walter an’ told ’im ’e knew of ’is poachin’ Lord Gilbert’s deer. Didn’t tell ’im ’ow, ’course. Told ’im ’e’d seen ’im in the forest, huntin’. Told Walter ’e’d keep quiet ’bout it did Walter give ’im some of what ’e took.”
“And some of Henry’s portion went to Kellet?”
“Aye.”
I took a moment to digest this. Kellet had violated his vows, breaking the seal of the confessional. Was blackmail a worse crime than this?
“When Henry died…what then?”
“Kellet come t’me. Told me what ’e an’ Henry was about. I wondered ’ow Henry got so prosperous, like,” Thomas muttered.
“He had iron hinges for his door, and an iron spade,” I commented.
“Aye,” Thomas mumbled.
“Henry blackmailed Edmund also?”
“Aye.”
I knew what Edmund must have confessed to Kellet. No wonder then that the smith thought his dalliance with the baker’s wife too costly. He had been paying a high price for Henry’s silence.
“Have you sought goods of the smith?”
“Aye,” he grimaced. “Threw me out, ’e did.”
“His sin is known. He has no need to pay to keep it from me or any other. I saw Emma in dispute with Andrew Miller. Next day I saw her leave the mill with a sack. Did Henry blackmail the miller, also?”
“Aye. Andrew confessed givin’ short weight.”
Why a miller would think himself in danger should this news be about I do not know. All know millers do such a thing. Indeed, they consider such taking a part of their fee. Although Lord Gilbert is perhaps more strict about the conduct of his demesne tenants than most nobles. Andrew must have thought an occasional gift to Henry atte Bridge a small price to pay to keep the man silent.
While I thought on these things Thomas looked up and spoke. “Did John Kellet slay me brother?”
“He did.”
“All ’cause o’ them shoes?”
“Aye. Greed will destroy a man…eventually. Had Alan yet worn shoes when we found him in the hedgerow I might have been satisfied that a wolf caused the beadle’s death. When Henry and John feared that I would seek out Henry and demand of him what he knew of Alan’s death, they determined to waylay me along the north road. But your brother failed to kill me, so John Kellet killed him, rather than me, to silence him. So I believe.”
“That fat priest should die,” Thomas spat.
“For killing a man who would have killed me? As you would have. Two brothers much alike.”
“But we didn’t.”
“Not for lack of effort or desire.”
“What will t’ bishop do with ’im?”
“The church executes no one. And I cannot prove he murdered your brother…nor can any man, I think.”
“’E’ll go free, then?”
“Not after what you’ve told me. The bishop’s court will demand penance, and when he completes that, he’ll be made a servant at some monastery, I’d guess.”
Thomas turned from me to face the wall. I heard him mutter imprecations against the church for allowing a murderer to escape hanging. Of course, he had escaped hanging only because he had not laid his cudgel a third time across my yet tender head. Or perhaps not. He might have got away with it. And surely Henry deserved hanging. But Thomas thought only of himself and the injuries done to him. He did not consider the wounds he gave others. But for the Spirit of God in some we are all much the same.
I turned to leave the cell. I had the knowledge I had come for. Uctred pulled the door closed behind me. As it slammed shut Thomas cried out.
“Wait…what will you do with me?”
“A jury of presentment will consider your crimes. You will be tried at hallmote, I think.”
“You will leave me here ’til Michaelmas?” he shouted through the opening in the door.