“Has he served you well since his arrival?”
“Hah! Too well.”
“Brother Prior told me he scours the town seeking the poor and ill.”
“He does, then brings them to the priory to be fed and treated. We shall be bankrupt by St Nicholas’s Day if he continues.”
“I am told he wears a hair shirt.”
“Aye, but never speaks of it, as do some who seek a name for holy living. He lodges here,” Brother William added, and nodded toward a dark corner of the chamber. There on the stone flags I saw a thin straw pallet.
“Kellet will soon return, for ’tis near time for dinner. You may see and speak to the fellow then. He will return with the halt and the lame in his train, and a few drunken fellows too, no doubt, to be fed with leavings from refectory and guest hall.”
And so it was. I left the almoner when a bell signaled dinner, and had taken a place with Arthur and Uctred at table in the guest hall when a stream of dirty, tattered folk entered the chamber. At their head walked a boney figure, wearing a threadbare black robe. This garment was near worn through at elbows and knees. Why at the knees? Did the wearer spend much time at prayer? This, I was sure, was John Kellet, but had I not expected his appearance I would surely not have known him. A year past he was a fat, slovenly priest. Now he appeared a gaunt mendicant.
The man I took to be Kellet began to seat his charges at a table but was prevented by a kitchen servant. The conversation of others in the hall hid much of Kellet’s discourse with the servant, but their words became heated and loud and I was able to discern some of the argument. Kellet claimed his charges were guests of the priory and so should be seated with other visitors. The servant demanded they wait for leavings at the gatehouse. The servant won the dispute, and I watched Kellet lead his motley followers from the hall as loaves were brought to the table. Arthur and Uctred looked to me with wide, curious eyes, for they knew whom I sought, they knew what John Kellet once was, and they guessed who it was they had just seen.
The priory served its guests a pease pottage heavy with lumps of pork. The loaves were maslin, not wheaten as at Glastonbury, so as to reduce the cost of hospitality, but the ale was fresh-brewed.
When the meal was done I went in search of John Kellet and found him at the gatehouse, where the hosteller had driven him and his charges. The ragged group was receiving surplus food from refectory and guest hall. I watched Kellet bustle about, making sure that all received something, and none a greater share than some other. As I watched it occurred to me that, unless he had fed in the refectory with the monks, Kellet had not eaten, for he did not take any portion of the leavings now distributed to this rabble.
While he saw to his flock Kellet was too busy to observe others, but when all were fed and even the scraps consumed he paused to look about him and saw me standing in the gatehouse. I think at first he discounted what his eyes told him. He glanced in my direction, then back to his hungry companions. A heartbeat later I saw him stiffen and jerk upright. He turned cautiously and stared at me across the shabby assembly. A moment passed while our eyes met. He then bowed slightly to me and resumed his work. His eyes did not again meet mine until the last of his ragged collection had drifted away down the street.
Kellet could not enter the priory without passing before me. I thought my position might, if he had a guilty conscience, cause him to hurry off toward the town on some pretended business. I was somewhat disappointed when he walked toward me and made no effort to escape a confrontation. This seemed not the act of a guilty man.
“Master Hugh… you are far from home.”
“As are you.”
“Aye, and you well know why ’tis so, but here is now my new home, and I am well content. Why do you visit St Nicholas’s Priory?”
“You cannot guess why I might seek this place?”
“You have business for Lord Gilbert in Exeter and seek lodging?”
“Aye, you speak true on both counts.”
Silence followed. Kellet seemed unwilling to ask of my business, and I sought some sign from him that memory of a recent felony caused him distress. I saw no such token, and if he was curious about my presence in Exeter he hid it well.
“The bailiff of Bampton Manor must be about Lord Gilbert’s business,” said Kellet finally.
“Aye. There has been a death, and I seek knowledge of it.”
“In Bampton? Who has died?”
“Thomas atte Bridge.”
Kellet was silent for a moment. When he spoke his words startled me.
“I thought so,” he said softly.
“You knew of this? How so?”
My suspicion, I thought, was about to be confirmed. I imagined Kellet about to confess. I should have considered his remark more carefully.
“Shall we go to the almoner’s chamber?” he asked. “I would like to know more of this.”
“As would I,” I said, and turned to enter the cloister, from which enclosure the almoner’s room was entered.
Brother William looked up from his accounts book as Kellet and I entered. “Ah, you have found John.”
The remark needed no reply. The almoner looked from me to Kellet, saw a scowl upon my face, and remembered some duty which required him to be elsewhere.
“I have business with Brother Prior,” he said, then turned to me. “You may speak privily here.”
I motioned for Kellet to seat himself upon the almoner’s bench, but remained standing. I had learned in past interrogations that a guilty man, when forced to raise his eyes to an accuser, may be more likely to admit his crimes.
“Why did you say, ‘I thought so,’ when I told you of Thomas atte Bridge’s death?”
Kellet sighed, then spoke: “’Twas dark an’ I could not see who it was hanging as I passed by.”
“You saw Thomas atte Bridge hanging from a tree at Cow-Leys Corner?”
“Aye. Thought that’s who it was.”
“Father Simon told that you were two nights in Bampton, yet no other but his servant saw you.”
“Not so. Thomas atte Bridge saw me.”
“Before you and some other did murder at Cow-Leys Corner?”
“Nay,” Kellet said sharply. “I did him no harm.”
“When, then, did atte Bridge see you?”
“The night before St George’s Day, when I was new come to Bampton. I rose in the night and sought Thomas.”
“Why?”
Kellet looked to his bare, boney feet before he replied. “I wished to confess my sin against him and his brother.”
“Henry?”
“I slew Henry with an arrow, and it was my thought to betray those who confessed to me at St Andrew’s Chapel. I sought Henry, then Thomas, to blackmail them on my behalf and share the spoils. For these sins I sought forgiveness from Thomas.”
“What did Thomas reply?”
“He laughed. Said I’d done him a favor, putting a shaft in Henry’s back.”
“How so?”
“He’d been encroaching upon Emma’s furrow since, taking as his lands those which were Henry’s.”
“Where did you have this conversation?”
“In the toft behind Thomas’s cottage. I disturbed his hens, so he’d think mayhap a fox was at them. Thought the cacklin’ would draw him out, an’ it did so.”
“And this was the night before St George’s Day? Not St George’s Day?”
“Aye, it was.”
“So Thomas harbored you no ill will?”
“No more so than against any man. He and Henry disliked all. This was why I sought them when I yet lived in my sin. I knew I would find willing conspirators.”
“You sought Thomas atte Bridge, to confess a sin against him, but you would willingly have seen me dead in the churchyard of St Andrew’s Chapel and helped to bury me. You saw no need to seek my forgiveness while in Bampton?”
Kellet studied his feet again. “I should have done,” he said to the floor, “but I thought you would be angered to learn that I was about, and I wished no more trouble from a vengeful bailiff.”
Kellet had thought I would not forgive his evil done to me, so to avoid my scorn he did not seek me. Was this so? Would I have denied him forgiveness had he asked? I fear so, for my dislike of a priest who would have seen me murdered and who betrayed the confessional was great. Is this also a sin, to refuse forgiveness, even for such evil deeds?