by Jason Vail
“Let me pass,” the stoop-shouldered man said to Gilbert.
“We would have a word with you,” Gilbert said.
“What of it? I’ve nothing to say to you.”
He stepped around Gilbert.
“You are Winnefrith?” Stephen asked, moving in his way.
“Who asks?”
“My name is Stephen Attebrook.”
“Of course, you are.” Winnefrith sighed deeply and put on a sad face. “You must excuse me. I am overcome with grief. I loved Father Giles. It is difficult to speak of him.”
“I won’t trouble you long,” Stephen said.
“Must you trouble me at all, sir?”
“It is necessary.”
“I won’t be answering any questions.”
Winnefrith stepped to go around Stephen, but Stephen grabbed him by the collar and pulled their heads together.
“You’ll answer my questions,” Stephen said.
Winnefrith tried to push Stephen. He was surprisingly strong, but Stephen shook him hard.
“All right, all right,” Winnefrith said, not sounding cowed, though. “What do you want?”
Stephen released his grip. “How well did you know your master?”
“As well as any servant.”
“Which means he had no secrets you didn’t know.”
“Well, I wouldn’t say that.”
“How long had you been in his service?”
“Nigh on fifteen years. He could have easily let me go, given my infirmity. As you see, I am not as hardy as I once was. But he kept me on.”
“Did he have any enemies?”
“None. He was loved by everyone who knew him.”
“What about debts?”
Winnefrith shook his head. “Father Giles had none, I’m sure of it. He had the living of four parishes and kept close attention to the accounts. He was never wanting for money.”
“And he wasn’t given to gambling?”
“Gracious, no! He thought that sinful.”
“Nor to drinking and whores?”
Winnefrith’s eyes shifted back and forth. “Well, he was a man, after all. What man doesn’t fancy drink and women?”
“What was his relationship with Isabel Gascelyn?”
Winnefrith blinked. “None, sir! None other than he was her confessor!”
Stephen let silence reign for a few moments. “You’re sure about that?”
“Positive, sir!” Winnefrith cried. “I cannot believe it! I refuse to believe it! Lady Isabel is a virtuous woman!”
“But Father Giles was not so virtuous?”
Winnefrith’s eyes dropped. “I told you, he had a weakness for women.”
“Whom else might he have been involved with recently, if not Lady Isabel?”
Winnefrith wrung his hands together. “I cannot say for certain.”
“But you suspect someone.”
“Well, I, er … yes.”
“And you do not know her name.”
“No, he did not confide her name to me. And I know that whatever the nature of the liaison, it ended. And not happily.”
“Not happily for whom?”
“Father Giles, I’m afraid. He was sore depressed about it.”
Stephen changed tacks. “Did he serve anyone else?”
“He also served the prince and his lady as their chaplain and confessor.”
“The prince? Edward?”
“Of course. How many princes are there?”
Stephen took a few moments to consider his next question.
“You said that Father Giles had been depressed recently. Was that his mood the day he disappeared?”
“I cannot say it was,” Winnefrith said.
“And how did you realize he had disappeared?”
“His bed was not slept in when I came to wake and dress him.”
“And you sounded the alarm immediately?”
“I, well, I … I waited until dinner time.”
“Why?”
“I thought he might have spent the night with his lady of interest,” Winnefrith said heavily.
“And you’re sure, as we stand here, that you don’t know who that was?”
“No — I swear I do not! Put me to the test! I do not lie! Father Giles made a special point of not confiding matters of his heart to me — on account he did not want to risk embarrassing the lady in question should anyone overhear.”
“A lady who might be married?”
Winnefrith sighed, and nodded.
When there was no question immediately forthcoming, he asked, “May I go now? Dinner should be underway.”
Stephen nodded. Meals to a servant were an important matter. It was a significant part of their compensation, and if they were late for the common meal, they often got no more than scraps.
“Oh,” he said, remembering something. “Why were only Father Giles’ travel clothes out to laundry? Did he go somewhere?”
Winnefrith’s paused. “He went to London.”
“Who long was Father Giles in London?” Gilbert asked.
“A week,” Winnefrith said.
“Do you remember the days — the precise day he left and the precise day he returned?”
Winnefrith frowned. “Why, he left five days before the Feast of Saint Nicholas and returned the day after.”
Stephen considered this answer. It meant that Giles had gone to London on the first of December and returned on Friday, the 7th — the day before his disappearance.
“I take it you didn’t go with him?” Stephen asked.
“No, he rode alone.”
“Why did he go there?” Stephen asked.
“He went to see a friend, a Father Bernard, at Saint Paul’s. They trained as priests together at Westminster Abbey. Father Bernard was Father Giles’ confessor. My lord had something weighing on his mind and would see no one else about it. That’s all I know.”
“That’s all for now,” Stephen said. “We will, however, want to inspect his quarters. After dinner, of course. You’ll be at the king’s hall in the upper bailey?”
“Yes,” Winnefrith said.
“We will await you there.”
“Of course, sir.” Winnefrith bowed and left the yard.
“Do you believe him?” Gilbert asked as they passed around behind the towering motte within the middle bailey to the next gate. “He seemed a bit shifty.”
“Protecting the identity of the lady, no doubt,” Stephen said.
“Yes, I agree with that. He knew.”
“I wonder who she is,” Stephen said.
“Do you think it a matter worth pursuing?”
“You don’t think so?” Gilbert asked.
“Well, her husband would have a good motive for murder if he found out about the affair. Who would know about that better than the lady in question?”
“Who better,” Gilbert agreed.
“But I think we already know who the lady is, though.”
“Ah, yes,” Gilbert said. “Lady Isabel.”
“Obvious from the start, no? She wanted the cross as a keepsake. I’ll wager it was her gift to him. She didn’t want the chance of anyone seeing it and guessing that fact. He’s covering for her.”
“No leaping to conclusions there, when they are plain as day.”
Stephen and Gilbert passed through the gate to the upper bailey, and Stephen asked directions to the king’s hall.
One of the gate wardens pointed to a stone building with a blue tiled roof a short distance away. “There it is, sir,” the warden said. “It’s the one between the queen’s chambers and the chapel. Just go round the queen’s chamber to the garden. You can’t miss it.”
You couldn’t miss it if you were familiar with the place. As a stranger, though, it might be easy to do so. But following the direction of the finger, Stephen and Gilbert entered the garden and approached a wide double doorway in a high stone building straight ahead. The muffled uproar of conversation and the singing of minstrels beat
through the door, giving the place away.
“Ida’s in there,” Gilbert mused. “It would be nice to see her again. I hope she is well.”
“She’s in some sort of trouble,” Stephen said. He suspected what that trouble might be, but it hurt even to think about it, much less talk about it aloud.
“Something other than being in the clutches of that terrible man?”
“It seems so.”
Gilbert frowned. “You’re not thinking about barging in, are you?”
“No,” Stephen said. “Come, have faith. I am more clever than that.”
“Sadly, you do not always give that impression.” Gilbert sniffed the air which was scented with the aroma of fresh-baked bread. “A pity you’ve made me miss dinner.”
“It is a sacrifice I am willing to make,” Stephen said, disregarding the growling of his own stomach.
“But why am I always the one to make them?”
“Fasting is good for you.”
“Only on fast days. This is not one of them.”
“You wait here for Winnefrith,” Stephen said. “FitzAllan’s unlikely to remember you. I’m going to make myself scarce. He may not have heard the gossip about us being here.”
“How likely do you really think that is?”
It was not likely at all, actually, but making himself scarce avoided the possibility of contention if FitzAllan or any of his following came out to the garden.
He said, “I’ll be waiting at the gate.”
“Are you sure you know the way?”
Gilbert and Winnefrith came for him half an hour later.
Winnefrith led them around the queen’s chambers into the bailey, which was big enough for two ordinary castles of the kind inhabited by the average baron.
The chapel stood at a right angle to the hall and parallel to the north wall. A small door gave access the chapel, and Winnefrith led Stephen and Gilbert through it and up a spiral staircase to the immediate left. The staircase ended on the first floor where one passage opened onto a gallery overlooking the hall, through which voices could be heard in conversation — Edward arguing for some position that the king should take during an upcoming meeting with Montfort and the rebels to take place in a few weeks before King Louis of France. Stephen almost looked in to see who was there, but Winnefrith paused impatiently in the opening to the upper floor of the chapel.
Winnefrith went down a hallway, and stopped about halfway. He opened a door to one of the chambers.
“Here we are, sir,” he said.
The room was dark and Stephen had to feel his way across it to open the shutters of the chamber’s single window so they would have some light to work by.
“Will that be all, sir?” Winnefrith asked. “May I take my leave?”
“No,” Stephen said. “I wish you to remain. As a witness to our search, so you can say nothing of value was taken.”
“As you wish, sir,” Winnefrith said stiffly.
The chamber was furnished with curtained bed, padded chair, wardrobe, side tables with legs carved to resemble vines curling around them, and a fireplace. The walls were whitewashed and painted with designs of more vines and colored flowers, red, yellow, and blue.
Stephen opened the wardrobe. Full-fledged priest’s vestments hung on hooks alongside more ordinary robes for daily wear. Three sets of boots where lined up beneath them, all well-cleaned. One of them, more battered than the others, must be Giles’ travel boots. Stephen went through all the pockets in all the robes and probed inside each boot in case there were articles hidden in them.
There was a smallish chest beside the boots. Stephen tried the lid. It was unlocked. He opened it, but the chest was empty.
“He kept his money here?” Stephen asked Winnefrith. “And his jewelry?”
“Yes.”
“What happened to it?”
“It was taken into safekeeping.”
“By whom?”
“Princess Leonor. Do you mind telling me, sir, why you are … why you are pawing through Father Giles’ effects?”
“Looking for something.”
“What could that be, sir?”
“Something important.”
“But what could be of importance here? What could lead to whoever killed him?”
“I will know it when I see it.”
Winnefrith did not seem convinced of that, but he was obviously anxious about Stephen’s invasion of Father Giles’ private space.
Gilbert paid no heed to this conversation. His attention was taken up by a writing box on a table by the window. He opened the slanted lid.
“Nothing here,” he said.
There was, however, a leather case on the floor by the table, the sort often used for storing documents. Gilbert knelt and flipped it open.
“Letters,” Gilbert said. “Mainly to and from someone named Robert.”
“That would be Father Giles’ brother,” Winnefrith said. “The Baron of Tottlesby.”
“Never heard of it,” Gilbert said.
“It’s in the north. Yorkshire.”
“Are you from there?” Gilbert asked, not taking his eyes off the letter. “I thought I heard Yorkshire in your speech. Though it is only a trace.”
“I was born there,” Winnefrith said. “I was away for years, though, and I guess that changes a man. I was in Gascony fighting for the king,” he added with some pride and then bitterness crept into his voice. “I was not always like this. Once I stood straight as an oak. I was strong and able. But as I grew older, something afflicted me. I have to be careful, for my bones break easily now.”
“When did you first start to suffer from your affliction?” Stephen said, feeling under the pillows like a common burglar.
“Twenty years or so ago,” Winnefrith said. “I fell from a horse, and was unnaturally slow to heal.”
“And the family did not discharge you?” Stephen asked. So often, the crippled were cast aside. No one liked to be reminded of how frail their bodies were: there but for the grace of God, people often thought as they passed by the disabled and the halt and pretended they were not there. Once, Stephen might have felt the same way, but something had caused him to feel more sympathy for the afflicted.
“His father kept me on, God rest his soul,” Winnefrith said. “Why?”
It was prying to ask about such things, and it was clear Winnefrith did not want this tack to continue.
“Oh, it’s nothing,” Stephen said, straightening up from the bed. “What did you do?”
“I was made valet to Father Giles. He was but a boy then.”
Stephen put the pillows back in place, thinking now about turning over the mattress before he pulled the wardrobe out from the wall.
“What will you do now?” Stephen asked.
“The princess has kindly taken me into her household. I shall not want for work or a meal.”
“That is fortunate.”
Gilbert set down the letters and held a folio of vellum to the light coming through the window, his breath curling from his nostrils.
“What is that, Gilbert?” Stephen asked. “Have you found something?”
“I don’t know,” Gilbert replied, holding out the vellum sheet. “But have a look at this. It’s a bill of sale for horses in London. It’s dated the day of the feast of Saint Nicholas. He paid quite a lot for them, too.”
Stephen accepted the vellum sheet. It showed that not only did Giles buy two horses, but the sale included bridles, saddle pads and saddles for them.
“Why would Father Giles buy a pair of horses in London?” Stephen asked Winnefrith.
Winnefrith looked startled. “I did not know he had bought any. He had no need. He already had three.”
“And did he come back with these horses?”
“No,” Winnefrith said. “He didn’t.”
Stephen rolled up the bill of sale and put it in his pouch.
“I think we’re done here,” he said.
Winnefrith looked relieved unti
l Stephen added, “Winnefrith, I need one more service from you, if you would be so kind.”
“Oh?” Winnefrith sounded doubtful.
“There is a young woman in the earl of Arundel’s party. Do you think you can carry a message to her from me?”
“I will try.”
“Her name is Ida Attebrook. Ask her to meet me in the chapel below us. But only if she can manage it alone. Don’t let anyone overhear the request.”
“Ah,” Winnefrith murmured.
“She’s my niece,” Stephen said to dispel any suspicions Winnefrith might have. “I want to talk about family matters with her out of earshot of her minders.”
“I think I might be able to manage, sir,” Winnefrith said.
“Thank you. I appreciate it.”
The chapel was dark but for thin blades of sunlight coming through the gaps in the shutters over its many windows. Stephen sat behind one of the stone columns that marched in parallel down the length of the chamber, dividing it into thirds. It was hushed and peaceful, or would have been so except for his worrying about Ida.
Time ticked by, what must be an hour or more, at least. He had about given up hope that she would come, when the door at the other end of the chapel opened, spilling sunlight into the dimness. A woman’s figure was silhouetted in that light.
He heard the scrape of shoe leather on a stone floor: only one pair of feet. She had been able come alone after all, Stephen thought with relief. He had been worried that even in the confines of the bailey she would be under the thumbs of her minders. He climbed to his feet, experiencing an unexpected rush of pleasure at the prospect of seeing her.
“Stephen?” Ida whispered. “Are you there?”
He stepped into the middle aisle. “Here, Ida.”
She ran toward him and leaped up to grasp him around the neck. The force of her dash staggered him back a few feet. His arms went around her waist, so that her feet dangled in the air. He felt tears upon her cheek before he set her down.
“Dear God,” she said, laying her forehead against his chest. “I am so glad to see you.”
“And I you.” Stephen wanted to ask her about her plea for help, but his mind was a jumble of feelings. He managed to stammer, “Are you safe? Are you well?”