[Stephen Attebrook 10] - The Corpse at Windsor Bridge

by Jason Vail

  “No,” Gilbert said. “And you?”

  “No luck. The proprietor said that the town was full up because of the king’s presence.”

  “But we got a chamber at that place up there.” Gilbert hooked a thumb toward the marketplace. “The Golden Swan.”

  “Maybe we got lucky,” Stephen said. “Anyway, he recommended the house of a friend of his in Underore.”

  “Where’s Underore?” Gilbert asked.

  “Behind that chapel where we examined the body,” Stephen said. “The friend lets out space in the barn.”

  “I don’t fancy sleeping in barns,” Gilbert grumbled. “I’ve never found a barn convivial.” He glanced at Ida as if for her support. It was scandalous for a gentlewoman to sleep in a barn.

  “I don’t mind a barn,” Ida said. “It will be a new experience.”

  “You won’t sing the same tune after one night in it,” Gilbert said.

  “You’ll find that I complain less than you do,” Ida said.

  “I’m not complaining,” Gilbert protested.

  “Of course, you are.” She smiled, patted his arm, and they walked up the hill toward the castle.

  Stephen and Gilbert walked up to the barbican the next morning shortly after sunup. A castle at that time of day was just waking up with hardly anyone about, but such was not the case today.

  The lower bailey was a scene of much rushing to-and-fro and confusion: wagons and carts being loaded, laden carts and wagons being brought down from the middle bailey, horses being saddled, servants and soldiers hurrying here and there amid a great deal of shouting. It had all the hallmarks of the impending departure of a great personage. Then Stephen remembered that the king and prince were set to leave for France and a confrontation with Simon de Montfort to be mediated by King Louis.

  Someone mistaking Stephen for a sergeant of the retinue shouted in his face, “What the devil happened to you? Fall down a flight of stairs? Quit standing around with your thumb up your arse! Get packed and make sure your horse is ready!”

  There was nothing to say to this but to nod and stammer, for the officer who had done the shouting was in no mood for anything else.

  When the officer passed on to his next victim, Stephen and Gilbert edged around the throng and hurried up the slope to the gate to the middle bailey, where they had to wait for some time for a long line of wagons and carts to get through.

  More carts and wagons were coming around the ditch encircling the great motte from the upper bailey, and there was another long wait to get through the last gate.

  A crowd of well-dressed magnates had gathered outside the queen’s chamber. Stephen recognized FitzAllan in the crowd in a heated discussion with the king himself. King Henry seemed to be listening thoughtfully to what FitzAllan was saying, nodding now and then. But when FitzAllan paused for breath, the king’s slender hand made a chopping motion and FitzAllan’s mouth drew down at the corners.

  “It will have to wait until we get back,” the king said, his voice penetrating a gap in the hubbub. “I’m sorry, but I just don’t have the time to deal with such a little thing right now. The girl holds only a single manor, after all, and even that is in dispute. And the matter of her possession will have to be decided first. If she’s not the heir, then the crown is not interested in her.”

  “What about the prince?” FitzAllan asked. “Can he be authorized to hear the matter in your stead?”

  The king looked thoughtful again, as if he was seriously considering this proposal. Then he shook his head. “Small as this thing is, it requires action by the crown, not by a deputy. Prerogatives, man! You understand this, surely.”

  FitzAllan drew a breath. “Of course, my lord.”

  “It won’t be long before you have satisfaction,” the king said. “We’ll be back within a month. I shall hear the case personally then, even though as you can see, I am very busy.”

  “Certainly, my lord,” FitzAllan said bowing.

  “Good,” the king said.

  Then he strode toward the gate to the middle and lower baileys. Most of the crowd followed him, including FitzAllan.

  This would bring them close to where Stephen and Gilbert were standing. There was nowhere to hide, apart from the stone stairway leading up the motte to the squat tower on top, so Stephen drew Gilbert through its doorway.

  Stephen caught a glimpse of FitzAllan in conversation with Prince Edward, and heard Edward say, “I’ll be staying a few more days after all,” then they were gone.

  He peeked out of the doorway and saw Edward’s wife, Princess Leonor. She was resplendently dressed, regal-looking from her broad, flat hat, snow white silk vale falling down her shoulders and back, and a flowing blue-and-white striped overgown. There was something about the overgown, though: it was belted about her middle with golden cord, but just below her breasts — higher than normal, for it should be about the waist. A gust of wind revealed why. The breeze drove the overgown hard against her abdomen, which was unreasonably round and protruding for such a slender woman, like a man’s misplaced pot belly.

  Stephen realized what that mound meant. She was pregnant; only by four or five months, he guessed, remembering how his wife Taresa had looked at that time. The recollection of her sparked a pang of grief mixed with guilt: he had not thought about Taresa in months.

  Isabel preceded the princess into the queen’s hall.

  Stephen’s plan had been to seek out Winnefrith and ask him about the cross. But the sight of Isabel changed his mind.

  Leonor was by a large blazing fireplace, her feet up on a stool and a blanket covering her legs. A servant was handing her a mug of something hot and steaming. Stephen had seen her only once before, on the morning of Giles’ funeral, and her appearance, as tired as she was, was arresting. Without trying, she dominated the chamber, slate-colored eyes that turned in his direction as he came toward her, narrowing with a question, the delicate lips compressing, the narrow chin rising up and the thin nostrils flaring as she took a breath, her expression at once concerned and a bit apprehensive? While he expected her to take offense at being approached by someone as lowly as he, her face relaxed with a slight smile. The hands upon her abdomen remained where they were and made no move to signal dismissal either to him or to the servants who surrounded her.

  Isabel occupied a chair at her side. She saw Stephen, leaned over and said something to Leonor.

  In contrast to Leonor, Isabel’s face was hostile.

  Stephen stopped.

  The princess nodded and beckoned Stephen to come closer.

  He came forward and bowed.

  He was about to say his name when Leonor interrupted. “So, you are the finder I have heard about,” she said in Castilian rather than French. “I hear you have been off to London, or some such thing.”

  “Yes, my lady,” Stephen said.

  “And you think that something happened in London that is connected with dear Father Giles’ death?”

  “I think there may have been, my lady.”

  “What on earth could it have been?”

  “I’d rather not say until I know more.”

  “I see.” She stared into the fire. “But you have come here with a purpose that has to do with Giles’ death.”

  “I would like a few moments with Lady Isabel, my lady.”

  Leonor glanced up at Isabel, who nodded.

  “Very well,” Leonor said.

  “It might be best if we could talk somewhere it is unlikely that anyone can overhear,” Stephen said.

  “Certainly. Isabel, kindly show Sir Stephen the chapel.”

  The chapel was as dim as it had been when Stephen waited there for Ida. A single open window admitted feeble light. It smelled musty, perhaps from tapestries on the walls of biblical scenes, which he had not noticed before.

  Moments passed without either of them speaking. Then, Isabel broke the silence.

  “Whatever do you want?” Isabel asked.

  Stephen stared at her dark figu
re and did not answer this question. He marveled again at how a woman who could be described as plain but was in fact strikingly beautiful. He saw only half her face, one portion dressed in light from the window and the other in dark shadow. This trick of light made her chiseled cheeks stand in relief and her mouth appear as if hewn from granite, the whole accentuated by her manner, which was poised and cool. She seemed like a fencer at the beginning of a contest, alert, ready, yet he felt she was not as unfazed as she wanted him to think.

  “Where is your husband, Isabel?”

  “What sort of question is that? Why do you want to know?”

  “I do not have to tell you why. Where is he?”

  Isabel shrugged. “He is the constable of Berkhamstead Castle. I don’t see what that has to do with anything.”

  Berkhamstead — Stephen had heard of it. It was a royal castle held by the king’s brother, Richard earl of Cornwall, twenty-five miles or so away, a day’s ride. Not that far. Her husband could have made a lightning journey here, done some bad business and got away easily.

  “I have not seen him for six months,” Isabel continued. She paced to the open window and turned, her face all in shadow now. “Our duties often keep us apart.”

  Her face now obscured by the dark, Stephen was deprived of the best means he had of telling whether she was being truthful. Had Isabel done this deliberately? He regretted allowing this to be the venue of their interview. He should have insisted on another place.

  Stephen let the silence rule again for a moment. It was an invitation for her to fill it with more information. But she did not accept it.

  “I am interested in the cross,” he said. “The one you took away. What was it to Giles?”

  Isabel did not answer right away. Stephen heard her breathing, slowly and with measure, controlled, yet giving the impression that she was in the grip of a powerful emotion kept in check.

  “I gave it to him,” she said at last.

  “Why?”

  “Because I wanted him to have it.”

  “An expensive gift.”

  “It was.”

  “Someone stole it from him, you know.”

  “No, I didn’t,” she said. She turned slightly, giving Stephen her profile, and then turned back. “Who did it? Those who killed him?”

  “That seems to be the case.”

  “Do you have any idea who that is?”

  “Not yet. Let us return to the subject of the cross. Someone stole such an expensive gift, such a personal gift, and he didn’t tell you? That’s hard to believe.”

  “We weren’t speaking at the end.”

  “The end of what?”

  More troubled breathing. Stephen wished he could see her face. He stepped up to her and to the side so that half Isabel’s face was in the light again.

  “You will not share what I say with anyone?” Isabel asked.

  “If it’s a confession of murder, that I cannot keep that secret. Something else, though?” He shrugged for effect. Stephen thought the answer was clear even before Isabel went on. But he had to hear it from her. It could not be his conjecture.

  “It is a highly personal matter. My reputation is at stake.” Her chest heaved as she breathed deeply. She said: “Giles and I — we were having an affair. I … broke it off,” she hastened to add.

  “And how did he take it?”

  “He was … hurt.”

  “For someone so interested in her reputation, why have an affair?”

  Isabel sighed. “Giles was a handsome man, charming, witty, well-educated. He came from a wealthy family. I was weak. I am often alone here, and he made me feel less so.”

  “Why did you break it off?”

  “Because it was hopeless, really. Nothing good could come of it. Do you think me a fool?”

  “I am not here to judge you. Only to find out the truth, such as it is.”

  “I am afraid that I cannot help much with that.”

  “Apparently not,” Stephen said. “Ah, there is one more thing. Does your husband know about this affair?”

  “No. We were most discrete.”

  “You’re sure? Keeping secrets in a noble household is very hard. The servants know everything that goes on.”

  Isabel put slender fingers to her temples. “Believe me. No one knew.”

  “How was this possible?”

  She dropped her hands and glared. “You would make me share that? Details of our intimacy?”

  “I would.”

  Her nostrils flared. “There is a confessional booth right over there.” She pointed to the far end of the chapel. “It is over large to accommodate the king and queen. We met there when no one else was about. No one questions a woman going alone to church.”

  “At least it wasn’t the sally port tunnel,” Stephen said. “That’s another popular spot.”

  “At least it was not that!” Isabel spat. “Now, if you will excuse me?”

  Chapter 13

  Gilbert waited for Stephen in the hall, where he lingered in a corner trying not to draw attention to himself.

  “Anything?” Gilbert asked as they huddled in the corner.

  “She confessed to having an affair with Giles,” Stephen said.

  Gilbert nodded. He had expected this revelation as well. He said, “Did she say anything about the cross, and who might have taken it?”

  “She claimed not to know anything.” Stephen briefly recounted the main points of the interview.

  “How did she seem?”

  “Cold. Detached. Not much affected by Giles’ death. Insulted by questions about the affair.”

  “Even though she claims to be the one who broke it off, I’d have expected a bit more,” Gilbert said, rubbing his chin. He looked toward Princess Leonor, who was absorbed in a conversation with a well-dressed matron, as Isabel settled onto the chair beside her. Isabel returned Gilbert’s stare and he looked away.

  She turned her eyes to Stephen, who held her gaze until she dropped her eyes and whispered something to Leonor.

  “A formidable woman,” Gilbert said, his eyes on the wall behind Stephen.

  “Indeed. She’s holding something back,” Stephen said. “I can feel it. But there’s no telling what it is short of torture. And even then, I’m not sure it would work.”

  “If I had to pick a woman capable of murder, she would be one of them,” Gilbert said. “What if Giles found another lover? Would she have killed him out of spite and jealousy?”

  “But women usually aren’t capable of throwing strapping men off bridges.”

  “No, but they can hire someone to do it for them.”

  “That’s true. And she doesn’t look short of money.” Stephen rubbed his temples. “None of this is making any sense.”

  “Where do we stumble off to now?”

  “To find Winnefrith. There are things I should have asked him but did not. And new things besides.”

  Winnefrith, however, was not there. One of the valets informed Stephen that Winnefrith had left Windsor; he wasn’t sure where Winnefrith had gone. But the prince’s chamberlain was sure to know.

  It took some time to find the prince’s chamberlain, the official in charge of his household staff, because the man had gone down to the lower bailey to see the king off on his journey to France.

  When they finally met, the chamberlain, a tall, lean man with thinning brown hair, who looked down his nose at Stephen and asked, “And what, sir, is your interest?”

  “I am Stephen Attebrook. The prince asked me to look into the matter of Father Giles’ death.”

  “Oh, yes. I am Edmund Viel, at your service, sir.” Viel coughed. “As to Winnefrith, we really had no position here for him with Father Giles gone. So, he was sent to one of Lady Isabel’s manors, where it was thought he could be of service.”

  “And that would be, where?”

  “Ottesdun.”

  “And where might I find Ottesdun?”

  “Just north of Oxenford about eight or nine miles
or so.”

  “Another ride in the country?” Gilbert asked without enthusiasm as they walked down to the gate in the lower bailey.

  “At some point,” Stephen said. “If we really must turn over that stone again.”

  “Are there other, more immediate, stones to turn over closer by?”

  “I was thinking of the Golden Swan. Hasn’t it struck you as odd that Giles knew where the cross was hidden? It’s as if he knew the thief. Yet for some reason, he was unwilling to accuse him, and instead sought to steal it back.”

  “You would think this thief would be long gone. I certainly would be in his shoes.”

  “Perhaps so. But you have the fortitude of a snail, and likely a good bit more sense. But perhaps we can find out with whom Giles was consorting in the days before his death. One of those people has to be our culprit. I am willing to guess that it was someone at the Golden Swan.”

  “You sound altogether too intent on solving this murder. I thought we were just going to poke about a bit and nip off home.”

  “We have to poke about in a believable manner if we are to be convincing to the prince.”

  “I just hope we don’t find ourselves poking another bees’ nest. For some reason that always seems to happen.”

  Gilbert’s offhand comment about poking bees’ nests rattled around in Stephen’s head as they walked through the marketplace toward the Golden Swan. The market was choked with soldiers standing about among carts that should have set off with the king but had not, evidently waiting orders what to do. Barging in the Swan and asking questions of anyone in reach about Father Giles and who he might have been associating with was a sure way to ensure that such people, who undoubtedly had something to hide, would vanish into the forests surrounding Windsor, never to be seen or heard of in these parts again. Thus, some subtle and clever plan for worming out what he wanted to know was needed. The only problem was, he could not think of such a subtle and clever plan. He worried about this all the way to the door to the inn.

  “You’re blocking the way,” a voice said behind Stephen.