This echo of distant voices caused me at first to ignore another sound which came faintly to my ears. I know not how long I may have heard the howls before the indistinct sound finally registered in my mind. Off to the east, beyond St Andrew’s Chapel, I heard a yapping and howling soft in the distance.
I made my way to the tower at the southeast corner of the castle wall. This seemed to be the closest point to the direction from which the sound came. There was silence for a time, then the howls began again. As I listened the origin of the keening seemed to move to the south of the town, until after an hour or so of intermittent howls and silence, the source seemed to move directly south of the Weald. And then I heard it no more.
I had never before heard a wolf howl, but it seemed to me I had done so this night. Tomorrow, Good Friday or not, I would need to track and dispatch the animal which made these howls in the night. I did not know if this was the beast which slew Alan, but it seemed to me a reasonable suspicion. Perhaps Alan, as his wife had guessed, in his patrol had heard the wolf while Bampton slept and followed the sound to investigate. This would explain why he was found away from the town. But it would not explain his absent shoes.
I returned to my bed and slept fitfully until I heard in the distance the Angelus Bell sound from the tower of the Church of St Beornwald. I desired to organize a party immediately to seek out the wolf, but at the third hour Alan the beadle would be buried. I would not show disrespect to the dead by taking away those who would mourn and walk in his procession.
Chapter 3
I broke my fast with half a loaf of good maslin and a pint of ale, then made my way to Catte Street. Because of my position I would be among the chief mourners and, with Hubert Shillside, John Holcutt, Matilda, and a few other small burghers, would lead the procession to the church.
I was surprised to see that Matilda had provided a coffin. Most of the tenant class rest on their bier encased only in a black linen shroud. Alan’s brother and three others from the town took their places at the poles. When Thomas de Bowlegh arrived to lead the procession, they lifted the coffin and we in the cortege fell in behind the priest.
Matilda and most of the others began wailing in grief as the coffin left the ground, but I walked silently beside Hubert Shillside as we passed from Catte Street to the High Street and turned right up the Broad Street. As the procession entered Church Street I spoke: “I heard the beast last night,” I whispered.
“Beast?” Shillside questioned.
“Aye. The wolf which may have slain poor Alan. Sleep escaped me, so I rose to walk the castle parapet. ’Twas then I heard it, howling.”
“A wolf?”
“Perhaps. I know little of wolves but that they are said to howl of a moonlit night. ’Twas no hound, of this I feel certain.”
“Where away?”
“To the east at first, beyond St Andrew’s Chapel. Then, as the hour grew late, it moved to the south beyond the Weald.”
“Think you Alan heard it while we slept, and died following the sound?”
“I suspect it. But I would have his shoes. A wolf may have taken his life, but ’twas a man took his shoes.”
“Aye,” the coroner agreed, and we fell into a companionable silence for the remainder of the walk to the church.
Our conversation was not overheard by any other in the procession for the lamentation which accompanied our steps. Matilda and her sisters and cousins wailed loudly. Others in the procession behind them added to the din. The clamor did not subside until the bearers lowered the coffin at the lych gate.
Father Thomas is a good priest, and sends a man to meet God with dignity, even a bit of elegance — which some might think more than Alan’s station required. But if a poor man cannot receive consideration while on his bier, I know not where he may find it.
The bearers lifted the coffin again and took it to the church. Father Thomas spoke the Mourning Office in a clear, strong voice, then removed his chausable. A cloud of incense floated over poor Alan as the vicar swung the censor. He sprinkled holy water on the body, then began our Lord’s prayer, which all followed. There were the usual prayers of forgiveness and deliverance from judgment, then the bier was lifted once again and all followed it out through the porch to the churchyard.
Father Thomas led us to a shaded corner near the wall, made the sign of the cross, and sprinkled holy water on the gravesite. The gravediggers, who had remained well back in the cortege, now came forward and set their spades to work at the chosen earth. The priest read psalms while these two were at their work.
When the grave was ready Alan’s brother lifted the coffin lid and he and the other bearers drew Alan in his shroud from the coffin and lowered him into the grave. As I suspected, Matilda could not afford to bury her husband in a coffin, but wished to show respect for her mate, so had rented a box from the carpenter — who stood in the group of mourners and watched as the gravediggers filled in the hole while Father Thomas spoke the final collect for forgiveness.
As the last dirt was shoveled on to the grave I caught a movement from the corner of my eye. Richard Hatcher, one of Lord Gilbert’s tenants, was motioning to John Holcutt from the churchyard wall. I gave no more attention to this, but went to offer sympathy to the widow. Matilda stood silent, staring at the fresh earth, her child clinging to her skirts, as the group of mourners began to break apart.
I do not now recall what I said to her. ’Twas probably trite. I thought to say to her that a funeral is not a time when the living mourn the dead, but rather a time when the dying remember those who are now alive in Christ, if their faith was whole.
Perhaps I should have spoken these words but I was uncertain how she would receive them. I may say this to her at some later time. I have learned that it is easier to say later what one should have said before, than to unsay what should not have been said at all.
Some may accuse me of forgetting purgatory. I have not. While a student at Oxford I rented from another scholar a Gospel of St John and copied it. These pages I have read many times, so that I remember many of the passages. Jesus said of himself, “Therefore if the Son makes you free, you shall be free indeed.”
If our Lord has made a man free, how can he then be imprisoned in purgatory? And how is a man made free? The scriptures speak plainly: through faith in Christ, the Son of God, who takes away the sins of the world. If Christ has taken away Alan’s sins, why must he be punished for them in purgatory?
I will again be accused of listening overmuch to Master John Wyclif, who has taught similar views. And purgatory has been a part of church tradition for many centuries. But again, I hold with Master Wyclif that a tradition must be supported by scripture to be valid. I find no place for purgatory in holy writ. But I am no smasher of temple idols, howso they might need to be toppled. Let others challenge the bishops; I wish only to heal men’s broken bodies. Perhaps I am a coward.
Alan the beadle left no funds with which his widow might endow an oratory where monks could pray him out of purgatory. When it comes Lord Gilbert’s time to die, Petronilla will certainly furnish a chapel in some monastery where prayers will be said for his soul forever. Will Lord Gilbert win release from purgatory before Alan? Our Lord said ’twas easier for a camel to pass through the needle’s eye than for a rich man to enter heaven. Then what of purgatory and endowed chapels and perpetual prayers? Although Lord Gilbert is generous to the poor, it seems to me his soul would be the better if he gave more to them now, while he yet lives, and less to the monks when he is dead. If he gives enough to the poor, he might not need to give even a penny to the monks.