[Stephen Attebrook 10] - The Corpse at Windsor Bridge

by Jason Vail

  Stephen turned. It was Gilbert de Clare, the young earl he had encountered a few days ago. “Sorry, my lord,” he said, moving out of the way.

  De Clare did not move at first, as if he expected Stephen to open the door for him. Stephen noticed that de Clare was alone. It was odd for a man of his standing to go about alone. Usually, earls and such were surrounded by a retinue of knights and squires ready to do everything for him, including wiping the shit off his ass in the privy.

  Seeing that Stephen did not intend to help with the door, de Clare coughed and showed the world that he knew how to open doors without assistance.

  Instead of plowing on in, however, de Clare stopped in the doorway.

  “Would you care for a drink?” de Clare asked.

  Stephen’s mouth opened with astonishment. He had never been invited to drinks with an earl. It was an offer that could not be refused, of course, unless he felt like insulting de Clare. “Certainly, my lord.”

  “Come on, then.” De Clare turned away.

  Inn halls ordinarily were not busy in the middle of the morning, but this day was an exception. It was jammed with soldiers who had taken the opportunity, since they had not yet been ordered to take to the road, to find solace in the arms of the whores on duty and in a rapid succession of pitchers and mugs of wine and ale that were being brought from the pantry in the rear by an army of struggling servants. All in all, it was a sad testament to the officers who had lost control of the men. But this sort of thing was not uncommon where loose women and drink could be had and leadership was soft. No doubt someone in authority would be along shortly to fetch them and put a stop to the fun.

  De Clare didn’t have to fight to catch a servant’s eye because one rushed forward as soon as he sat down, and placed a pitcher of wine and cups on the table without asking de Clare’s preference. Apparently, he was well enough known that the servants knew what he liked.

  De Clare filled the cups and shoved one of them across the table to Stephen.

  “So, how was London?” de Clare asked. He took a deep draught and wiped a dribble off his chin.

  “Busy, dirty,” Stephen said. “As it usually is. Why?” He sipped from his cup, surprised that the wine was sweet; a white rather than the usual chalky red Gascon vintages to be found in most taverns and inns in England.

  De Clare shrugged. “You know, we heard a strange thing the other day. From one our correspondents in London. Some of the city’s men arrested a royal spy. Apparently, he was snooping around Thames Street trying to build support for the king’s cause. Do you know anything about that?”

  “Why would I?”

  “Well, the fellow’s name was given as Attebroke. Very close to your name. And neither are very common. And they could easily be confused.”

  “Wasn’t me,” Stephen said.

  “And you got those marks on your face falling off your horse, no doubt.” De Clare finished his cup and poured another for himself. He sounded disappointed. “You’re not a spy? Edward didn’t send you to London on some secret mission?” De Clare cocked an eyebrow in disbelief.

  So, this was the reason for the offer of a drink. Not a bid for manly companionship but an attempt to pump Stephen for secrets that the prince had not shared with de Clare.

  “I am afraid not,” Stephen said. “He doesn’t have that much regard for me. Certainly not for something as delicate as a secret mission.”

  De Clare’s mouth turned down. “Well, there are few Edward thinks highly of, so don’t count yourself out. And so, you know nothing about a gaol break, then. Pity, I was hoping to hear about how it was managed.”

  “I wouldn’t know. I don’t know anything about breaking out of gaols.”

  De Clare snorted. He leaned forward. “You broke out Bishop’s Castle gaol, and Hereford Castle. And one other place I misremember. One of FitzAllan’s retainers held it. No matter. London can’t have been so much of a challenge for you. Unless it was Newgate. Was it Newgate?”

  Stephen ignored the question about Newgate. He said, “You know about Bishop’s Castle and Hereford?” It should not be surprising that word of these exploits had circulated about. Yet Stephen hadn’t considered that people might think gaolbreaking was a skill he had mastered. In fact, at Bishop’s Castle and Hereford, Margaret de Thottenham had made his escapes possible. He had merely taken advantage of her help, just as he had Ida’s.

  “Christ’s blood, man, FitzAllan is still livid about Hereford and that other place you escaped from. I cannot for the life of me remember its name. Somewhere near Clun, I think it was.”

  “You are thinking of Bucknell, I believe,” Stephen said. A year ago almost at this time, a girl had been found dead under the snow outside Saint Laurence’s Church in Ludlow. To identify her killer, Stephen had traveled into FitzAllan’s lands about Clun and ultimately to Bucknell, a FitzAllan dependency, where the girl’s killer, her husband, had held Stephen prisoner.

  “Ah, that’s it!” De Clare slapped the table. “And then there’s this matter of your niece. She just up and disappeared the same night as you. Tongues are wagging over that one. Where did you stash her? London, I suppose?”

  “I haven’t stashed her anywhere.”

  “Denying all involvement, eh? No one will believe you. Especially not FitzAllan. You won’t keep your skin long when his boys get their hands on you, if that’s your attitude.”

  Stephen sipped from his cup and did not reply. He knew that FitzAllan would be enraged and that, somehow, he would seek to punish Stephen. He didn’t like thinking about it, nor talking about it, however.

  De Clare went on. “You know, with your experience with gaols, you’ll be much in demand in the coming days. People would pay well to get their family members out of hold. Cheaper than the ransoms that’ll be demanded when they’re taken prisoner. I would expect that breaking into a place is easier than breaking out of one.”

  De Clare waved a hand at the taps behind the bar where Johnnie, the proprietor, was filling a pitcher. “Look at this place. Just two weeks ago, somebody robbed the strong room. It’s supposed to be impregnable, as such things go.”

  Stephen’s senses suddenly tingled. “A robbery?”

  “Oh, well, a break-in really. Someone picked the lock to the strong room and cleaned it out pretty thoroughly. Caused a scandal. The value of what was taken came to at least a hundred pounds. You haven’t heard about it.”

  “No. This is the first I’ve heard of it.”

  De Clare shrugged. “It’s not important, really. Merchants’ losses. Unless you’re thinking about storing something there now.”

  “When, exactly, did this break-in occur?”

  De Clare frowned in thought. “I don’t know. Let me see … You know, it was the night that idiot Giles disappeared.” A light dawned in de Clare’s eyes, which he fixed on Stephen. “Could he have been involved? Is that why he disappeared?”

  Before Stephen could respond, de Clare rushed on, “No, that’s not credible. He came from a good family and didn’t want for money. And he just didn’t seem the sort. Mild-mannered, bookish, given to reading poetry, singing songs and other such rot. Soft as a boiled turnip. Not the sort of man to go robbing inns.”

  The news that the Golden Swan had been burgled the night Giles vanished ignited a fire under Stephen and he could barely keep still with the shock and excitement of the revelation. He tried nonchalance with a dose of indifference to hide his feelings.

  “You’re expecting war, then?” Stephen asked to change the subject. “I thought we were trying to avoid it.”

  De Clare snorted, but looked pleased to be consulted about his opinion of such a weighty matter. “You don’t think that this next round of talks with Montfort will make our problems go away, do you? The prince certainly doesn’t. He’s preparing for battle as we sit here.”

  “I thought he was going to the meeting in France, following the king in hopes of making peace.”

  “Oh, he’ll be going, all right, in a f
ew days’ time. And as for making peace! That’s a good one. You don’t know much about diplomacy, do you?”

  “I am a poor country knight. What could I know about things like that?”

  “It’s all about positioning, making it seem to the world, and especially the Pope, that Montfort is the cause of the troubles. Once we’ve made our side seem eminently reasonable and the other side recalcitrant and unreasonable, then the action will begin.” His eyes narrowed. “But where will we strike, eh? That’s the question everyone wants to know. Edward keeps those plans close. He doesn’t share them with many people.”

  “Not even you, my lord?”

  “Not even me,” de Clare said with some bitterness and a frown, indicating that he was not as trusted and in the know as he felt he should be.

  Fortunately for de Clare’s disposition, the pretty blonde woman Stephen had seen him with before, elegantly dressed for a whore, reached the table. She extended a slender hand to de Clare. “My lord, I didn’t realize you were here!”

  De Clare took the proffered hand and smiled, the bitterness swept away. “Adeline! It lifts my heart to see you!”

  “Come upstairs, my lord, and I’ll lift more than that, if you please.”

  De Clare rose and Adeline drew him away.

  But she winked at Stephen over her shoulder.

  Gilbert Wistwode slipped into the place de Clare had occupied. He peered into de Clare’s cup and then into the pitcher, which he sniffed.

  “I say,” he said. “There’s still wine left.”

  “Go ahead.” Stephen waved at him. “De Clare paid for it. You might as well enjoy it.”

  “What did he want?” Gilbert asked as he poured wine into de Clare’s cup. “Not to be friends, surely.”

  “No. He thought the prince dispatched me to London to drum up support for the king.”

  “So he knows about the arrest,” Gilbert said.

  “Yes.”

  “Even the gaol part?” Gilbert asked alarmed, his cup pausing a few inches from his lips.

  “Seems so. Although the informant got my name wrong, so there is room to sow doubt. Don’t worry, you’re not connected with it.” Stephen refilled his cup. It was early to be drinking wine and his head was starting to float above his shoulders. “He did say one thing of interest.”

  “Oh?”

  “The night Giles disappeared, someone burgled the strong room here.”

  “I say, that is interesting. So whoever stole the cross put it in hold here, you think?”

  “That would be my guess, and I’m going with it. Whoever burgled the strong room cleaned it out pretty thoroughly, too, according to de Clare.”

  “Taking on a bit of freelance in addition to serving the client, eh?”

  “Nothing like a little enterprise.”

  “Do you think our thief might still be here?” Gilbert said, letting his eyes wander about the hall.”

  “Not the one who burgled the strong room, no.”

  “I meant the fellow who filched the cross.”

  “I have no reason to think so, yet I have a feeling he still is.”

  “Ah, feelings. So supportive of conclusions.”

  “You don’t think so?”

  “I don’t know what to think, frankly. Yet I have the same feeling, unaccountably.”

  Stephen down his cup and swore not to take another drop, a resolution he promptly violated as Gilbert filled his cup to the brim.

  “Let us think this through,” Stephen said.

  “Oh, dear Lord! That will hurt so! Are you sure you wouldn’t rather rely on feelings? So much less work.”

  “I am afraid we will have to do the work.” Stephen put down his cup, having drained it by half. He was feeling warm and reckless. Perhaps he should resort to wine in the mornings more often. It did wonders for your self-regard and sense of invincibility.

  He went on, “We found the cross under Giles’ habit. We know it was a gift from Isabel, which he did not want to wear openly. So, whoever stole the cross needed to get under his habit.”

  “That is brilliant.”

  “Thank you. So, what sort of person is likely to get under a priest’s habit?”

  “The laundress?”

  “Besides her.”

  “His valet?”

  “That is not helpful.”

  “A whore?”

  “I should think so. Is it not unlike some men to drown their disappointment at rejection in the arms of another woman?”

  “Sympathy is not usually a stock in trade for whores.”

  “The more polished ones will cater to every need.”

  “You have more experience in that than I, as we have well seen. I am a happily married man.”

  “And I am glad you are.”

  An officer entered and began shouting for all of the soldiers to get outside and line up: their fun was over. Two of that officer’s companions climbed the stairs to flush out those enjoying the comforts of the establishment’s whores in the chambers above. Stephen hoped they were lucky enough not to disturb de Clare’s revels, but from the sound of angry shouting, it seemed one of them blundered into the wrong chamber and was getting his arse chewed out over it.

  It was not long before the inn had cleared out so that Stephen and Gilbert were the only ones to enjoy what remained of de Clare’s pitcher in the unnatural silence, except for two broad-shouldered fellows occupying a table in a far corner.

  The whores drifted over to the men in the corner, apart from the red-haired girl, Jennet, who came off the stairway and headed toward Stephen.

  “Jennet!” one of the men barked. “Let those fellows be!”

  Jennet halted and jerked around. “But why?”

  “You girls get upstairs and get some rest. They’ll be a lot of work later, and you’ll need all your strength.”

  Jennet shrugged and went back of upstairs, with the other girls.

  The broad-shouldered men rose. Like several of the girls, they were dressed as a well-off merchant might be: blue and brown coats of fine material, well-fitting and newish, stockings of bright colors showing little wear and no mending, thick cloaks of good green wool. They went out to the street.

  Stephen and Gilbert had finished the wine. Stephen stood up to go but his head swirled and he sat down.

  “You are drunk,” Gilbert said, not attempting to rise. “And on duty, too.”

  “I am not drunk. Just a lack of sleep.”

  The proprietor of the inn, Johnnie, came out of the passageway to the pantry. Spotting his only two customers, he came over, a towel over one shoulder.

  “You boys need anything?” Johnnie asked.

  Stephen’s tongue caressed his teeth, not liking the metal taste. “What’s cooking?”

  “Hungry, eh?” Johnnie said. “It’s not long to dinner.”

  “I was wondering if it was worth it to come back.”

  “It’s always worth it.” Johnnie grinned. “We’ve got eel stew in the pot and fresh round cakes and beans with cabbage.”

  “I like the sound of that,” Stephen said.

  “The eels or the cabbage?”

  “Both.” Stephen struggled to find a way to be subtle about the next thing he planned to say, but subtlety avoided him, so he just blurted out, “I hear you had a break-in of your strong room.”

  Johnnie’s face went hard and remote. Clearly, it was something he neither wanted to be reminded of nor to discuss. “What of it?”

  “Oh, just curious, I suppose. We wondered how it was possible, owing to the fact that careful innkeepers such as yourself guard their strong rooms well.”

  Johnnie’s mouth turned down. “It happened during the night, when everyone was asleep. I had a dog on that floor, but she died during the night. That’s the only reason why anyone got in.”

  “That is oddly fortuitous.”

  “We think she was poisoned,” Johnnie said. “That’s the only thing that makes sense. We found her on her back by the door in her usual p
lace, some scraps about her, foam in her mouth.”

  “A pity about the dog.”

  “A pity about what was lost! Almost a hundred pounds in coin and jewelry — at least that’s what the owners claimed. I’ll be hearing from lawyers about it for ten years.”

  “Ah, lawyers. I hate lawyers. Nothing good ever happens when they come around.”

  “Damned right about that. Flies on shit, that’s what they are. The only ones who weren’t upset about it were those two.” Johnnie waved toward the door.

  “Who?”

  “The fellows that just left. Philip Wyking and Richard Kilwardby. And they lost as much as anyone.”

  “Sorry to hear that. What were they out?”

  “A chest of coin. Most of their takings from that week.”

  “Their takings?”

  Johnnie pointed upwards. “They own the girls.”

  “You don’t have your own whores?” Most innkeepers who allowed whores the run of the place owned them. It was unusual for that not to be the case.

  “I do, but only two.”

  “I’ll bet your girls didn’t like it,” Gilbert muttered.

  Johnnie shot him a sharp look. “They do what they’re told. Anyway, I’ve not laid them off. They’re working the kitchen. I need the help there, with all the new custom.”

  “And having a jolly time of it, I imagine,” Gilbert said.

  “I don’t understand why you’d put your girls aside,” Stephen said.

  “Those fellows made me an offer I couldn’t refuse. More than my girls might bring in. They follow the king around from place to place. Make quite a good living at it, if what they paid me is any indication.”

  “Did any of the new girls put anything in the strong room?” Stephen asked.

  Johnnie frowned. He was used to answering questions now and didn’t seem to mind this one. “No. They have nothing of value of their own.”

  “I suppose they wouldn’t have. Say, did you know Father Giles de Twet?”

  “I knew him by sight. He’s not the sort to speak much to me other than give a good day. Civil enough about it, but that was the extent of our conversations.”

  “Did he come in here often?”

  “He did, a bit. Never seen a man with such a long face. Used to sit in a corner and drink himself to sleep.”