“Tell me of departing Bampton and what you saw at Cow-Leys Corner.” I was not yet convinced of Kellet’s truthfulness, and thought to seek some contradiction between his words and what I knew of Thomas atte Bridge’s death.
“I wished to be away from Bampton, beyond Clanfield, before any were upon the streets, so I arose well before dawn. Father Simon’s cook left a loaf for me, as I had told of my plan. I took part of the loaf and set out.
“The moon had not yet set, and by its light I saw a form hanging at Cow-Leys Corner while I was yet fifty paces or more from the place. I hurried to the tree, but the man was dead.”
“You did not recognize Thomas atte Bridge?”
“His face was dark and swollen, and well above me. But I thought then ’twas him.”
“You sought no aid?”
“To what purpose? He was a dead man. And I was too much the coward to face the questions which would come did any know I had returned to Bampton.”
“You are certain he was dead?”
“Aye. I touched his arm. It was cold. He was dead long before I found him.”
“And you would not call the hue and cry?”
“’Twas near dawn. The sky to the east was growing light. I wished to be gone, and I knew that soon there would be folk upon the road.”
“You were once fat with indulgence, but are now but skin and bones. Was pilgrimage so arduous?”
“No more than should be.”
“Should be?”
“What favor from God if a penance be easy?”
“You found God’s favor?”
“Aye. I did not seek it, at first, but found it, as the Lord Christ found me.”
“How did He do so?”
“I set out for Compostela in foul mood, angry at all who crossed my path. I had traveled as far as Gascony when I fell in with a Franciscan who also traveled to Compostela. I wished no companion but he persisted and I came to accept his presence. He told me later he saw my wrath and knew the Lord Christ had put me in his way.”
“You journeyed to Compostela with this friar?”
“Aye. There were other pilgrims on the way, but none wished to join with me, so black was my temper.”
“And this friar chose to walk with you even though other more amenable companions were at hand?”
“No matter how sour my words, I could not drive the friar away. When I was silent, so also was he. When I spoke, he listened and rarely answered. Not at first. Before three days passed he knew all.”
“And he did not desert you then?”
“Nay. He opened to me the Scriptures. I had thought my sins so great that no deeds of mine, no pilgrimage, could wipe them away. In this I was correct, the friar said. No man can earn heaven.”
“‘Why this pilgrimage, then?’ I asked the fellow.”
“What did he reply?”
“It was of no value to save my soul, he said.”
Kellet was silent, again staring at his dirty, emaciated feet. “The Lord Christ died for my sins,” he said, “so I, and all men, might find salvation, did we believe and follow His commands.”
“And this you now believe?”
“Aye.”
“But you seek to earn God’s favor now by helping the poor and denying yourself. You wear a hair shirt.”
“The shirt will not save my soul from God’s wrath. I wear it but to remind me of what I owe to the Lord Christ. It is His death, the friar said, that was in place of my own. I live now not to win salvation, for such is mine already, but in respect to the commands of the Lord Christ, who taught that we must care for the poor.”
“And you traveled to Bampton to show others of your change of heart?”
“Nay. Such would have been prideful. I wished to confess and seek forgiveness of those I had wronged: Father Simon and Thomas atte Bridge.”
“But not me?”
“I should have, I now see. I might have saved you a long journey. But I was fearful of your wrath. No man wishes to anger the bailiff of a powerful lord, can he avoid it.”
Had I been so harsh that even a man reformed of past transgressions would fear to face me? I did not think myself so frightening. Perhaps a bailiff needs to create a sense of apprehension in those who might violate the law. Can I better govern Lord Gilbert’s manor if I am feared or loved? Surely John Kellet and Thomas atte Bridge neither feared nor loved me when they thought me dead and plotted my burial outside the church wall at St Andrew’s Chapel a year past.
“Thomas atte Bridge was dead and cold when you passed Cow-Leys Corner?” I said, returning to my inquiry.
“He was.”
“You were about when all good men are to be abed, behind closed and barred doors. Did you see any other man upon the road?”
“None other. Thomas was cold. I saw the stool he stood upon to hang himself overturned near the tree, where he kicked it.”
“You thought him a suicide?”
“Aye. Was he not? A moment past you charged me with his death.”
“Thomas atte Bridge did not take his own life,” I replied. I did not offer why I believed this was so, and Kellet did not ask. He found me trustworthy; more so than I found him.
“When you spoke to atte Bridge in his toft, did he seem ready to take his own life?”
“Nay. Why encroach upon Emma’s furrow did he not plan to harvest the crop he would plant there?”
“Yet when you saw him dead, at his own hand, as you thought, this did not puzzle you?”
“Thomas was ever unpredictable and hasty in his judgments… especially had he too much ale of an evening.”
“You thought him dead of his own hand in drunken insensibility?”
“Aye, something like that.”
“You did not consider that there are those in Bampton and the Weald who might wish to do him harm?”
“Him, and me also, but such a thought did not come to me then.”
“Atte Bridge died at the end of a hempen cord taken from Father Simon’s shed,” I announced.
Kellet looked up to me from the bench, his eyes wide. “This is sure?” He appeared a man whose carefully plotted tale was about to be undone.
“Aye, as sure as can be. The cord was gone, then returned a week past, missing the length found with the corpse at Cow-Leys Corner.”
“I was here, in Exeter.”
“When the cord was returned, aye, but not when it was taken. One man did not haul Thomas atte Bridge from his toft to Cow-Leys Corner and there hang him. There is evidence that two did so. The man who took the rope from Father Simon may not be he who returned the unused portion.”
Kellet was silent again. I thought, nay, I hoped, that he was a guilty man devising some tale which might deflect suspicion, some tale I might catch him up in. My only option, if Kellet were innocent as he claimed, was to return to Bampton and discover there a felon.
“So you believe me guilty of the crime,” Kellet said softly, “along with some companion. Who in Bampton remembers me so fondly they would do murder with me? I am disliked there by all men, as much as Thomas atte Bridge was.”
I could not argue the point. But to agree with Kellet would be to deny his guilt, to admit that my journey to Exeter had failed, and further, would require of me forgiveness of the man’s crimes against me. Forgiveness is costly, but not so dear as anger and hatred and resentment. These three had taken me to Exeter, with a bit of suspicion added. My mistrust of Kellet would linger, I knew, but I saw that my wish for evidence of his guilt over any other man was due to desire as much as to evidence.
Father Simon had told me John Kellet was a changed man, but was I? Kellet surely needed to transform his life, although I yet held suspicion of whether or not he had truly done so.
Men who knew John Kellet a year past would agree about the man’s need to reform. What of me? Did I seek guilt where it would be most convenient? There was evidence to direct my suspicion to Kellet, but when I learned from Father Simon that he had amended his ways, I wished not to believe it so. If Kellet was indeed a changed man, I could not assign another death to him, as I wished to do.