Kellet had not asked for my forgiveness, so he said, because he was fearful I would not grant it. Must I now ask his forgiveness for doubting the transformation in his life? I did not do so, and now, some weeks later, as I write of these events, my heart is troubled.
There was little more to learn from John Kellet. If the man was a murderer, I had found no way to prove it so or coerce a confession from him, although I admit that when I left the almoner’s chamber I had not given up all hope that somehow he might be discovered guilty of Thomas atte Bridge’s death. I did not wish to return to Bampton a failure, nor did I wish to see some friend of mine hang for avenging themselves upon Thomas atte Bridge.
I wished justice to strike John Kellet for his past sins. What of my sins? For those, I desired the Lord Christ to have compassion and show mercy. May justice and compassion live together? If so, how may a bailiff blend the two, or is such the work of God only?
I did not wish to agree with Father Simon, but my conversation with John Kellet left me with few options. If Kellet was not a man transformed, he was a better actor than any I had seen perform upon the streets of Oxford or Paris.
I found Arthur and Uctred and told them we would begin our return to Bampton next day. For what remained of this day I had another goaclass="underline" I wished to see the cathedral.
The Church of St Peter is a wondrous structure, as are all great cathedrals. I have worshipped in the abbey church at Westminster, at Notre Dame and St Denis in Paris, and at Canterbury. I am always filled with wonder to do so. Is the awe I feel due to the magnificence of God, or the works of man? Perhaps man’s soul magnifies the Lord Christ in his works.
Early next day Arthur, Uctred, and I set out for home. I did not bid John Kellet farewell. I should not have behaved so meanly, but I was yet distressed that the most convenient felon had eluded me.
I turned in my saddle as the road crested a hill above the valley of the Exe to gain a last view of the cathedral rising majestically over the town, then set my face toward home and Kate.
Toward the ninth hour of the next day we again halted before the gatehouse of Glastonbury Abbey. I was not pleased to lose a day of return to Kate, but I had promised Brother Alnett to deal with his other cataract, and to demonstrate the procedure to the infirmarer’s assistant. And ’tis true enough that our three elderly beasts would appreciate a day of rest.
The hosteler was pleased to see me, and announced that he had sent to London for eyeglasses. “From Florence,” he said proudly, “where the best are made, ’tis said by all.”
Next morn after terce I couched Brother Alnett’s cataract-clouded right eye, with the infirmarer’s assistant peering intently over my shoulder. He needed a more proficient tutor, but in the breech I must serve. I pray, if the man is called to couch a brother’s cataract, he may meet with good success though his instruction may have been wanting.
Chapter 9
Three days later, Whitsunday, shortly after the sixth hour, we weary travelers passed Cow-Leys Corner and the oak where Thomas atte Bridge died. I was dolorous for my failure at Exeter. To revisit the scene where my disquiet began reduced the joy I felt at returning to wife and hearth.
I left Bruce at the marshalsea and made my way past the mill to Church View Street and Galen House. Kate seemed much pleased at my return, and after an embrace set about preparing a feast to celebrate the event.
She disappeared into the toft and a moment later I heard a chicken squawk. Kate reappeared with a capon dangling from her hand. My dinner had taken its first step toward my belly.
While she plucked and cleaned the fowl, I announced my intention to scrub away the dirt of road and inn. I have a barrel, sawn in half, which I keep for the purpose. From the well I brought several buckets of water which I poured into iron kettles and set upon the hearth, near the fire. As Kate had placed more wood upon the blaze to prepare for roasting the capon, the water in these pots was soon warm enough for my purpose. I emptied the kettles into the barrel, stripped off cotehardie, chauces, kirtle and braes, and immersed myself in the soothing bath. While I soaked, Kate set the capon to roasting, then took my cotehardie to the toft where she noisily pounded the dust from it.
I was soon garbed in clean braes, chauces, kirtle and cotehardie, and enjoyed a stomach full of roasted capon. To conclude the meal, Kate had prepared some days past a chardedate, expecting my imminent return. The dates and honey were a delightful welcome home.
I would not seek another journey to Exeter, or any other place, but returning home to Kate’s embrace made the hardship of travel fade. Memories of the road stretching before me, Bruce’s jouncing gait, the verminous inns, the failure to discover a murderer, all these were blotted from my mind as the sun fell below Lord Gilbert’s forest to the west.
Kate’s appetite had returned. Next morn, as we shared a maslin loaf, she told me the gossip of the town.
“There was a marriage three days past,” Kate announced between bites of her loaf. “Edmund the smith wed Emma atte Bridge.”
So the town smith married the widow of a man who had blackmailed him a year past. This was no business of mine. Edmund was Lord Gilbert’s tenant, not a villein. He could wed as he wished. And Emma atte Bridge was a tenant of the Bishop of Exeter and no concern of mine.
“You have not spoken of John Kellet since your return,” Kate remarked. “Did he do murder when he visited?”
“I think not.”
“Your face and mood speak disappointment.”
“If Father Simon’s judgment is true, and Kellet be a changed man, I must seek a murderer among our neighbors.”
“What of your judgment?” she asked.
“I fear Father Simon is correct.”
“You fear?”
“Aye. I will be doubly cursed when I find who murdered Thomas atte Bridge. I will send some acquaintance to the gallows, and his fellow townsmen will blame me for the death. Whoso he may be, he — and his companion, for more than one man dragged Thomas atte Bridge to Cow-Leys Corner — is considered by most to have done a commendable service to Bampton and the Weald.”
Kate hesitated before she replied. “Will you abandon the search? All men think atte Bridge took his own life. None would fault you for admitting agreement.”
“None but myself. And you? Would you think well of me did I quit the search for a felon, or would I forfeit some small part of your esteem?”
“You will continue, then?”
“What else may I do? Justice belongs to all.”
“Even those who deny it to others?” Kate mused.
“It must be so. What is justice but truth with its sleeves rolled up, ready for labor? If only those who have always done justly, who have always spoken truth, deserve justice, who, then, is worthy?”
“Then you must do as your conscience requires. If you succeed, and find a murderer all the town would prefer remain concealed, and we are then hated in this place, we may return to Oxford. A good surgeon will not lack bread for his babes.”
Kate had grown fond of Bampton. She told me so but a fortnight after we wed. I thought she might miss the bustle of Oxford, but she claimed not so. It was easier, she declared, to find friends in a small town than in a city, where folk seem too occupied to concern themselves with others. So to advise removing to Oxford spoke more than the words alone might mean. Here was Kate’s admission that I must pursue justice no matter where the path might lead.
But where did the path begin? It is difficult to conclude a journey at the proper destination if one cannot find where to begin. I saw before me several roads, but which must I follow?