Unhallowed Ground (9 page)

The seeds of wild lettuce will calm an anxious man. I know not if the draught succeeded with the monk, for he seemed a phlegmatic sort anyway, but I was tempted to prepare a cup for myself.

The patient whose cataract is being couched must not be permitted to blink while the work is done. I required the infirmarer and his assistant to fix Brother Alnett’s upper and lower eyelids in place, took a deep breath, and began my work.

I had among my instruments a needle, used for stitching wounds, which would serve, I thought, to couch a cataract. The milky corruption of a cataract is but a humor collected between pupil and lens, thus obstructing vision. My task was to clear this space, so that when it was empty vision might be restored. The monk’s cataract was of many years and fully formed, so no medicinal treatment would avail.

I inserted my needle into the outer edge of Brother Alnett’s whitened lens and worked it into the space between lens and pupil. I felt resistance when the needle touched the suffusio, for the cataract was large and firm. But because it was so it came free from its place in one whole, rather than breaking apart. When the cataract was loosened I thrust with the needle until I had worked it down and away from the pupil.

My work was done, so long as the suffusio stayed where my needle had pushed it. If it did not it would require breaking into fragments and these pieces would then be depressed. I prayed this would not be necessary, stood from my patient, and wiped sweat from my brow with the sleeve of my cotehardie. It was not a warm morning, but I noted perspiration also upon the brows of the infirmarer and his assistant. Brother Alnett seemed not so affected. Perhaps it was the lettuce seeds.

The monk blinked rapidly several times when his eyelids were released, then turned his head to the infirmary window whence came a shaft of golden morning sun. The beam struck the infirmarer’s table, upon which lay an opened book. Brother Alnett’s gaze fastened upon the volume and he stood and walked to it.

We who observed were silent as Brother Alnett stood over the pages of the infirmarer’s herbal. He peered down upon the book, then turned and spoke.

“The letters are much blurred, but I see them. Lenses will make them distinct and I shall read again.”

The monk spoke these words with such radiance upon his face as to rival the sun which framed him against the window.

“I would learn this work,” the herbalist’s assistant said softly. “Yesterday Brother Alnett could not have seen there was a book upon the table; now he can read it, or near so. Will you teach me the procedure?”

“There are others at the abbey who suffer from cataracts?” I asked.

“Not presently. Brother Ailred was so afflicted, but he died last year. Had I your skill I might have lifted some part of the burden of old age from him. And if some brother suffers a cataract in the future I might ease his affliction.”

I was of two minds concerning the request. An herbalist who could successfully couch a cataract would be a blessing to the town and abbey. But I knew so little of the business that I was just competent to perform the work. Could I teach another from my limited store of knowledge?

Brother Alnett heard the request. “Master Hugh travels to Exeter,” he said. “When he completes his business there he has promised to again visit Glastonbury, when he will restore my other eye. You may observe and learn then.”

A distant bell signaled the time for dinner. Brother Alnett led me to the guest hall, where Arthur and Uctred and nearly a hundred other guests joined me. Surely the abbey lands must be great to provide such hospitality. The hosteller left us with the promise that he would return after the meal. I had spoken of a wish to see the wonders of the abbey, and Brother Alnett was eager to display them.

Monks ate their meal in the refectory, but when we three finished our dinner the hosteller awaited, ready to show us marvelous things. Brother Alnett led us first to the great church. We entered through the north porch. Where the choir meets the crossing he displayed the tomb of Arthur and his queen, Guinevere. From Arthur’s tomb the monk directed us to the south transept, where is found the great clock, pride of the abbey, if monks be proud, as they have sworn not to be. Next we saw the Glastonbury Thorn, said to have sprung from Joseph of Arimathea’s rod. ’Tis surely a miracle that a tree will flower at Christmastide as well as the spring, when other, more common blooms appear.

“Our holiest place,” Brother Alnett advised, “is St Mary’s Chapel, for it is on this site that the old church, first in Glastonbury, was built.” He led us there and indeed it was not possible to stand in the place and escape a sense of awe and the presence of God. Arthur and Uctred felt this also, and crossed themselves.

“The view from the tor is wonderful,” Brother Alnett claimed. “I thought never to see the abbey from its heights again, but now I shall. I will take you there next.”

The climb to the top of the tor is laborious, but worth the toil. The Church of St Michael at the top is nearly completed. What effort it took to haul the stones to the eminence! Arthur and Uctred had chattered as we began the climb, but were soon too winded to continue their prattle. At the top the magnificence of the view seemed to strike them dumb, and me as well. It was Brother Alnett who spoke: “The death you spoke of… is it a murderer you seek in Exeter?”

“Aye. The man I seek was once in league with another to blackmail those who had confessed to him their sins, for he was a priest assigned to a small chapel near Bampton. His accomplice in the felony was found hanging from a tree near the town three weeks past.”

“Did not the Church demand penance of the man for betraying the confessional?”

“Aye. He was required to make a pilgrimage to Compostela, which he did, but has since returned. He is to serve as assistant to the almoner at St Nicholas’s Priory, in Exeter.”

“You believe this priest murdered the fellow found hanged?”

“Aye. The dead man’s brother was first entangled in the blackmail, and was found dead from an arrow in the back when I was near to discovering the felony. ’Tis my belief this priest slew him to avoid his sins being exposed.”

“An evil man, this false priest,” the monk concluded.

Arthur and Uctred had overheard this conversation while gazing out over the town and abbey below. Now Arthur spoke: “John Kellet was always a good man with a longbow. Master Hugh couldn’t prove ’e’d put the arrow in Henry atte Bridge’s back, but who else would do so?”

“Kellet?” Brother Alnett turned to me with raised brows. “The priest was named Kellet?”

“Aye. John Kellet.”

“He stayed three days here… no, ’twas four. I would not have thought him strong enough to draw a bow. He was near to collapse from hunger when he came to us.”

“How long past was this?” I asked.

“Three weeks, thereabouts. Said he was bound for Exeter. Didn’t say why. I bade him stay ’til his strength was renewed for the journey. I could not see him plainly, of course, but brother infirmarer said he was gaunt and wore a hair shirt. A holy man, we took him for.”

This report troubled me. Was John Kellet so able an actor that he could take a man’s life but appear pious to both Father Simon and the monks of Glastonbury Abbey?

Early next morn Brother Alnett bid me farewell and required of me a promise that I would visit the abbey again upon my return from Exeter to treat his other eye. The sun that day was warm in our faces as we traveled southward. Robins and jackdaws flitted across our way, and high above carrion crows perched in the uppermost branches of trees. From such lofty roost they watched for songbirds, and when they saw a smaller bird seeking its home they flapped from their place to swoop down and plunder the nest. Must it always be thus, that the strong take what they will from the weak? It is my duty as bailiff to see it is not so, but many who hold such a post as mine in service to great lords are much like the crows. The carrion crows do but what is their nature. Is such conduct men’s nature also? It must be so, else why must the Lord Christ die for our sins? I must seek Master Wyclif and hear his opinion.

Arthur, Uctred, and I sought lodging that night in Taunton, and departed next day with multiple companions, for the inn was verminous.

W
e reached Exeter late in the second day after leaving Glastonbury, as the sacrist rang the church bell to call the monks to vespers. St Nicholas’s Priory is not so grand as Glastonbury Abbey. The latter soars over a majestic cloister, whereas at the priory a squat church presides over a mean, unadorned cloister. If the object of monastic life be to live in simplicity and humility before God, surely the brothers at St Nicholas’s have an advantage over those at Glastonbury.

The hosteller at the priory is young to be a guest-master. He showed us to a chamber in the priory’s west range, sent for a lay brother to care for our beasts, and spoke never a word otherwise. So I was not required to announce the reason for our visit and decided to await the new day before I approached the prior to seek permission to examine John Kellet.

Prior Jocelyn Ludlow was unavailable or unwilling to grant me audience next morn ’til after terce was sung. But the sun was warm against the stones of the guest hall, so sitting there upon a bench was a pleasant diversion. It was near time for dinner before a monk of the house announced that the prior would see me.

Jocelyn Ludlow is a gaunt, narrow-faced man. But for a different name I might have assumed him kin to the abbot of Glastonbury Abbey. His thin, pointed skull rises hatchet-like from his tonsure. This is balanced by an equally sharp nose, about which I will say little, for it is remarkably like my own. His deep-set eyes scanned me from head to toe when I was shown to his chamber. I felt as if he discerned my mission before I announced it.

I introduced myself and my task. When I was done silence followed, for the prior was speechless. I soon discovered the reason.

“John Kellet’s past is known to me,” he finally said. “The bishop told me of his felonies many months past. I expected a reprobate, but when the man arrived a fortnight past I found an ascetic.”

“Does his work please the almoner?”

“Entirely. Too much so. Kellet is not willing to wait for the poor to appeal to the priory for aid. He goes into the town streets to seek them out, then returns with a multitude following. The infirmary is bursting with those he has found ill, and the infirmarer has near exhausted his supply of herbs and remedies. Brother almoner is at his wits’ end for fear funds will be depleted. How will the priory then aid the poor? But Kellet will not desist. I do not know,” the prior sighed, “what I am to do with the man. This is not a wealthy house. He seems bent on bankrupting the priory in the name of God’s work.”

“Kellet was once a fleshy man,” I said. “I am told he is no longer.”

Prior Ludlow’s eyes widened at this statement. “Nay,” he said. “He is all skin and bones and seems likely to blow away does a strong autumn wind come from the sea.”

“He was once skilled with a longbow. I saw him place eleven of twelve arrows in a butt from a hundred paces.”

“Don’t know if the man could lift a longbow now, much less draw and loose an arrow.”

“You think my mission foolish, then?”

The prior pursed his lips and thought for a moment before he replied. “I am not competent in the ways of murderers, as a bailiff might be, but John Kellet seems not capable of what even the bishop told me of his crimes.”

The prior told me where I might find the almoner and I set off for the chamber. This was not difficult to discover, for St Nicholas’s Priory is not large. I hoped I might find Kellet in company with the almoner but was disappointed. A pale, round-faced monk peered up from examining a book as I entered his chamber. He was alone. As I approached the fellow I saw that he was inspecting an account book. He did not seem pleased.

“You are Brother William, the almoner?”

“Aye.” The monk stood and examined me for sign that I required alms from the priory. He seemed perplexed that an apparently prosperous visitor sought him. I relieved his confusion.

“I wish to speak to you of your new assistant.”

“John Kellet? He is not within.”

I could see that. “I will speak to him later. I would have some conversation with you now. I am Hugh de Singleton.”

“Very well,” the monk shrugged, and waved his hand to a bench. When I sat upon it the almoner resumed his place at his table. “Kellet has served here little more than a fortnight. I do not know him well. What is it you would know?”

“Do you know why he is here?”

“Aye. Brother Prior told me of his misdeeds. Is it of this you would know?”

“I know of his offenses. I am bailiff to Lord Gilbert Talbot on his Bampton Manor. I discovered Kellet’s felonies.”

“Then you are the reason he was sent to Compostela on pilgrimage.”

“Nay. Kellet’s own deeds are the reason his pilgrimage was required. I was but discoverer of his misconduct. No doubt he harbors resentment of me for finding out his sins.”

Brother William’s brow furrowed. “Not so,” he replied. “Kellet told me all, and said ’twas well his crimes were found out, else he would likely have continued in his sins and mayhap died with them unshriven.”

“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?

“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.”