A Corpse at St Andrew's Chapel Read Online Free PDF

most men. I watched the miller’s eyes as they flickered about the dusty room, as if he sought some deliverance from his condition. But there was no escape. Gradually his eyes steadied on me.
    “This must be done, an’ I’m to have two good arms?”
    I nodded.
    “You will make the potion strong?”
    “I will…but it will be of but small relief.”
    Andrew looked at his arm, resting in a makeshift sling on his ample paunch, and stretched a finger as if to test whether or not his situation was really so desperate. His grimace told us both that it was.
    “You will do this today?” the miller whispered.
    “As soon as I can procure tools from the castle and return.”
    The miller nodded, too choked with apprehension to speak. As the mill was adjacent to the castle, I returned promptly with my supplies. In that time Andrew had grown pale with anxiety.
    I secured a cup of ale from the miller’s well-fed wife and mixed a large portion of ground hemp seeds and willow bark into the drink. Andrew watched with enlarged eyes as I did this, but took the cup and drank the potion down when I offered it to him.
    It is my experience that, when a potion is administered to deaden pain, it will achieve its effect an hour or two after it is consumed. I told the miller to sit quietly and wait for the palliative to do its work. I would return when the time had come to proceed with my task.
    As it was less than half a mile to St Andrew’s Chapel, I set my feet in that direction when I left the mill. I could see the priest there, ask what I might, and return to the mill before the ninth hour. This time I did not linger at the bridge across Shill Brook.
    The priest at St Andrew’s Chapel of Beme is a slovenly, unlettered man. He holds his position there only, I suspect, because he will perform the duties of the tiny parish – if parish it could truly be called – for the minimum remittance of one third of the revenues – a requirement laid down by Pope Alexander III 200 years ago. One third of the revenues from a parish so small as that which attended mass at St Andrew’s Chapel was not enough to attract a man who could do better, and any educated cleric could.
    Father John Kellet, clerk and priest of St Andrew’s Chapel, had not, I believe, ever been more than ten miles from Bampton, the place of his birth. He had been heard boasting that he had never set foot in Oxford, although I must admit that, in the few conversations I had with the priest, this subject did not arise, and most residents of Bampton and the Weald might make the same claim.
    Father Simon Osbern, of the Church of St Beornwald in Bampton, trained John in the priestly duties. But the course of study was too brief for anything but the rudiments. Kellet had no Latin. He merely spoke the words of the mass, extreme unction, and other sacraments by rote. Why, I wonder, must this be so? Can it be that God cannot understand English? Must men worship in a language they do not understand, led by a priest who speaks what he does not comprehend?
    Men will say that I spent too much time while a student at Oxford listening to Master John Wyclif. Perhaps this is so. But his arguments made sense to me then and do yet, though I am a peaceful man and chose not to challenge the bishops over the issue.
    St Andrew’s Chapel is an ancient structure. It was old when the Conqueror came from Normandy to wrest the kingdom from King Harold. The wall about the churchyard is now tumbled down in places, so that pigs may wander in and root amongst the graves. The absentee rector should see to the mending, but like many in his position, he cares more for his purse and his living than he does for keeping a small chapel in good repair.
    Those parts of the wall which yet stand firm are covered in ivy and nettles. Soon this foliage will topple more stones, unless it is uprooted. The rector will not pay to have this done, and John Kellet will do no work which may be avoided. The future of the walls of