by Jason Vail
Stephen ran across the street as fast as his bad foot would allow. He entered the Broken Shield’s hall in time to see Megge’s feet disappearing up the stairs. He cut between Gilbert and Edith, who were in a heated discussion about inn management, and climbed the stairs after her. His bad foot slowed him down, but since his legs were long, he was able to take the stairs two at a time to Megge’s one, and he caught her as she reached the second floor.
He grasped Megge’s shoulder to stop her. She shook him off and Stephen ended up pressing her against a wall. She tried to kick him in the shins, but he evaded the blows.
“Leave off, you bastard!” Megge snarled, giving up her attempt to get away.
“You’ll answer a few questions first,” Stephen said, aware that Ida was coming up the stairs behind him.
“I’ve said all I have to say!” Megge spat.
“This Morecok,” Stephen said. “Was he a lord?”
“You going to hit me if I don’t answer?” Megge sneered.
“No,” Stephen said. “But you owe Harry the whole truth. He isn’t here to ask, so you’ll have to tell me.”
Megge snorted out her nose. Stephen suppressed the urge to hit her despite what he had said, and waited.
“What do you want to know?” Megge said finally.
“Who was this Morecok?” Stephen asked.
Megge shrugged. “A man at the Gloucester market. I met him at a tavern. He offered to buy the boys.”
“Who is his lord?” Stephen doubted that someone she met in a tavern and bought her children would be a lord. But he might work for one.
“I have no idea.”
“How much did he pay?”
“Three pounds.”
“That’s a lot for two small boys,” Stephen said skeptically. Three pounds was quite a lot of money. He paid two pounds a year in rent for his townhouse alone. It was hard to imagine anyone offering that much for little children.
“They’re thirteen and seven, old enough to work.”
“When was this?”
“Two months ago? I don’t know.”
“And all that money’s gone, now, isn’t it?”
Megge nodded.
“You’re broke, with nowhere to go. That’s why you’re here.”
Megge glanced beyond Stephen to Ida.
“Money’s got nothing to do with it! I love him,” Megge stuttered. “I just couldn’t face …” Her hands flapped and her voice fell off. “And when I finally found out he hadn’t died, I came straight here.”
“After six years, that’s the first you heard about Harry?” Stephen asked.
“I swear!” Megge said. “I’ve been in Gloucestershire. No one knows Harry there. It wasn’t until I ran into his sister in Hereford that I found out.”
“What’s the name of this tavern?” Stephen asked.
“The Duck,” Megge said. “Are you done? Will you let go of me?”
“Just one more thing. This Morecok — was he a regular at the Duck?”
“I got that impression. People there knew him.”
Stephen stepped back. He had got all he was going to get out of her.
“You should leave Harry alone,” Stephen said.
“I’ll do whatever I like,” Megge said, and headed up the stairs.
“Are you going to do it?” Ida asked. “Find Harry’s boys?”
Stephen sighed. “I don’t feel I have much choice.”
“Even when your manor has just burned to the ground? You’ll have your hands full — and need every penny —putting it right.”
“Will you help?”
She crossed arms. “Did you think I wouldn’t?”
The next morning Stephen, Ida and Mistress Bartelot rode out to Halton Priors, or rather Ida and Mistress Bartelot rode while Stephen walked, leading a rented packhorse carrying food, spare clothes and a tent. He had lost two horses in the raid, but fortunately had two others at pasture in the Linney Field north of Ludlow, where the castle kept its horses. One of these horses was his war stallion, a feisty horse that pranced and struggled against Ida’s control to the point that she grew worried, even though she could ride well. At the look on her face as they came off the Dinham Bridge, Stephen took the stallion by one rein and the horse calmed down.
They had fled from the manor in such haste and in the dark, with fires blooming thickly, that Stephen expected to find nothing but charred ruins everywhere. But the raiders had spared four of the twenty-five houses, although these had been thoroughly plundered so that not even a stick of furniture or cooking tool remained. To Stephen’s surprise, most of the village people were there, having spent the night crammed into those houses, and when he arrived, many folk were throwing up rude shelters of sticks pulled from the forest.
By a miracle, no one had been killed. The raiders had been satisfied to drive people from their houses before looting them and setting them afire.
Randulfus, the steward, walked with Stephen to the ruins of the manor house while Alan, the village bailiff, oversaw the erection of the tent under the eyes of Ida and Mistress Bartelot.
“Do you intend to stay, lord?” Randulfus asked as they neared the remains of the gatehouse. He was a heavy-set man with a black beard and black eyes and yet he walked with an agile step. He had done a good job running the manor before Stephen arrived. Stephen had gone over the manor’s accounts and found everything well ordered.
They paused at the gatehouse. Stephen had a full view of the remains of the manor house across what was left of the gate house. The stone walls of the first floor still stood, but the upper parts of timber had burned and collapsed.
Wisps of smoke could be seen rising above the stone walls. The choking stench of burned wood hung thick in the air.
“No,” Stephen said. “Ida and Mistress Bartelot are.”
“I see,” Randulfus said. “Does it have to do with the war?”
“No. It’s personal business. For a friend.”
Randulfus seemed surprised at this response. “Of course. But are you sure you’ll be able to stay out of it?”
Randulfus meant the war, and this was a subtle reference to the fact that Stephen was now tied by bonds of fealty to Lord Edward because he held the manor from Edward’s wife, Leonor. It was not unlikely that Stephen would be called away.
“We do what our lords require,” Stephen said.
“We do that.”
“You’ll see that the ladies are protected?” Stephen meant that Ida and Mistress Bartelot would be kept safe here and if they went anywhere, men would be available to accompany them. Even though it was only three miles to Ludlow, there were plenty of opportunities for misfortune on the way.
“Of course, lord,” Randulfus said.
“Do you have any idea what we need to do to recover from this?”
“It’s a lot like starting an assart from scratch,” Randulfus said.
“Never done that,” Stephen muttered. “Have you?”
“No, but I can imagine what has to be done. I imagine Lady Ida has some ideas, too.”
“She’s full of ideas,” Stephen smiled. “She filled my ears with them on the way out.”
They clambered over the charred timbers blocking the gate and crossed to the house. Stephen looked in a window. Ash and great burnt timbers from the fallen roof filled what had been the hall. The ashes were still smoldering; he felt his face redden from the heat. The sight made him want to despair. He had gone to bed one evening filled with hope and exhilaration for the future, and in the morning found that pathetic hope was as fallen and charred as those great beams. It would take years to rebuild this house.
“We’re going to need food, and tools, and animals just to get through the winter,” Randulfus said. “And that will take money. At least they didn’t destroy the crop in the fields.” He meant that the winter wheat still lay out there, unmolested, and would be available for harvest in July, God willing. He didn’t mention the beans, which had just been seeded, or the cabbage and other vegetables, b
ut he didn’t need to. Stephen had already seen that the bean fields and most of the village’s vegetable patches had come through relatively unscathed; only those close to the houses had suffered any appreciable damage.
“I have some money, as you know.” Half the contents from a chest Stephen had taken from a Portuguese slaver last summer was buried in a corner of the Ludlow townhouse, and he had managed to rescue the manor receipts. “It’s still in Ludlow and Ida can fetch what you need. But there may not be enough. You may have to borrow what we lack.” Stephen smiled thinly. “Just don’t borrow so much that you throw us into ruin.”
“I’ll be careful, sir. Do we have permission to take wood from the forest?” Randulfus asked. Peasants had ongoing permission to collect fallen wood for fires but they needed the lord’s approval to cut down a tree, which they would need to do to rebuild their houses.
“Of course,” Stephen said. “But food, tools and animals come first.” All the cows were gone, and the horses and oxen, but most of the sheep had got out of their folds during the confusion and been hurried away, so there was that. They might have some mutton from the old ones and fleeces in the spring.
They turned back toward the gatehouse.
A thought occurred to Stephen as they reached it. It was a question that he should have asked Megge. He was forever thinking of things he should have asked someone but never did, usually something important that, had the question been asked, his task of finding what he had set out to find would have been much easier. Everyone seemed to think he was so clever, but it was a miracle that he ever found anything at all.
He said, “Have you ever been to Gloucester?”
“Of course, lord,” Randulfus said. “I’ve taken our wool clip there a time or two and bought wine as well.”
“Have you heard of a tavern called The Duck, then?”
“Rings a bell, sir.” Randulfus frowned in the effort to remember. “It’s one of the better ones. It’s on Westgate Street, by the King’s Board.”
“What’s the King’s Board?”
“It’s a small market hall where butter and cheese are sold. You can’t miss it.”
Chapter 5
When Stephen returned to Ludlow just before dinner time, no sounds of industry greeted him from Harry’s shop at the front of the house. Normally, at this hour, he heard sawing, hammering, the hum of the lathe, the snick-snick of carving and occasional curses as things went wrong. Now it was silent.
Stephen glanced in the doorway, expecting to find the shop empty, with Harry having gone into the hall for dinner. But instead, there was Harry, seated on the floor, staring into space.
“Are you all right, Harry?” Stephen asked.
“Go away,” Harry said without turning around.
Stephen did not go away. He entered the shop. Then he pulled up the window shutters so that no one passing by could see inside.
“Did Megge come back?” Stephen asked.
“No.”
That was a relief to hear. So, Stephen tried the next obvious thing. “I’ll get them back, Harry. I’ll find them and get them back.”
“What if they’ve been sold abroad?” Harry asked, still not turning around. It was not unusual to sell people in France, Ireland or even as far away as Africa, as had almost happened to Ida and Joan the previous year. “Little boys can be worth a lot — for more than just work.”
This was true as well. There were men who used young boys as cruelly as others did young women. So, there was nothing Stephen could say to that.
“I’ll find them,” Stephen said, hearing the lameness of the promise. But he couldn’t think of anything else to say.
Harry swiveled himself around on his fists. “You and I will find them.”
There was much of the normal Harry in the determined tone and stony glint, and Stephen couldn’t argue with him.
“I’ll come, too,” a voice said from the doorway. It was Gilbert.
“You’ll just slow us down,” Harry said.
“Me? When you fall off your horse, I’d like to see you trying to get back on. It will take weeks,” Gilbert said.
“My cart will do well enough,” Harry said. He got around town in a small cart pulled by a single pony. He had managed a journey to Hereford in it back in December, but it had been slow going.
“If anything will slow us down it’s that cart,” Gilbert said, who had not been on the Hereford trip but knew all the details. “If your concerns are true, we haven’t any time to waste.”
“You’ve been eavesdropping on us,” Harry said.
“Of course, I have. It’s the best way to find out things in Ludlow,” Gilbert said.
“You think we should leave today?” Harry said. “I agree.”
“You really want to come with us?” Stephen asked Gilbert. He didn’t say that a journey to Gloucester was likely to be fraught with peril, since at least one Montfort army was in the area, and that might attract forces loyal to the king. It was never a good idea to be near armies on the march.
“Certainly,” Gilbert said, hooking his stubby thumbs into the belt that restrained his ample stomach. “You’ve never been able to manage without me before. Why is now any different?”
Stephen smiled. “But will Edith let you go?”
“I will handle Edith,” Gilbert said archly.
“Ha! If things go as usual,” Harry said, “you’ll be mopping floors and emptying chamber pots while we’re in Gloucester.”
Chapter 6
It did not take long to get ready once the decision was made to go right away. Packing took no time at all. Joan ran to and fro throwing clothes and food into satchels with an oddly desperate haste. Raiding the stash of the Portuguese money, since Harry’s savings had fallen to less than a pound because of his purchase of tools and wood; renting two horses — one for Harry and the other as a pack animal —and borrowing an arming cap from one of the men at the castle garrison took up the most time. But by a couple of hours after the dinner hour, the horses and Gilbert’s mule waited in the road outside Stephen’s house.
The weather, for its part, had turned from the generally sunny to a chill overcast. Tiny grains of snow drifted out of that low sky, hurried now and then by a fitful wind. Stephen was not looking forward to a ride in this weather and neither was Gilbert, if the sour expression as he waved at the flurries about his head was any indication.
The mule tried to bite the rump of the rented pack horse, which replied with a kick that sent Stephen, who was tying satchels to the pack horse, staggering backward. The animals shied apart and the mule nearly escaped down Bell Lane, but Gilbert grabbed one of his reins at the last moment, and was yanked off his feet for his trouble.
“Did you see that?” Gilbert panted as he climbed to his feet, his knees soiled and muddy. “He did that on purpose — as a diversion — to escape!”
“Anything not to be ridden by you, I suppose,” Stephen said.
“I like him no better than he likes me,” Gilbert grumbled.
“He likes you more than anyone in this town does,” Harry said. He was sitting in the road removing the leather gauntlets that he wore to protect his hands while staring up at the impossible distance between him and the withers of the horse he was to ride.
“Careful she doesn’t step on you,” Gilbert grumbled.
“Yeah,” Harry said. “She might break a leg, and that will detain us.”
Harry, of course, had no obvious way of mounting a horse by himself, and the fact that Gilbert had mounted the mule meant that Stephen had to undertake the task of lifting Harry to the saddle. Stephen stooped to grasp Harry around the arms from the back. He grunted with the effort of raising Harry off the ground, since he was as solid as an oak stump and seemed to weigh more.
“Don’t throw your back out,” Harry wheezed because of Stephen’s death grip on his chest.
After some struggle, which Gilbert watched blandly, Stephen managed to raise Harry high enough that he could grip the pommel and
cantle of the saddle and pull himself the rest of the way. Stephen began to tie Harry to the saddle with a set of straps intended for that purpose, but Harry batted Stephen’s hands away.
“I’m perfectly capable, mother,” Harry said.
Even with the straps securing Harry to the saddle, however, he looked a bit anxious behind the glower. He had even less experience riding horses than Gilbert had with mules, and had no more faith in his horse than Gilbert had in the mule.
Harry’s look softened as he spotted Joan in the doorway holding Christopher so he wouldn’t run into the street and bother the horses. Christopher squirmed. Joan put him down and barred his efforts to slip around her.
“You stay put!” Joan ordered Christopher, who did not seem to heed this instruction and continued the struggle against Joan’s legs, which prevented his passage.
Harry caught Joan’s eye. He started to say something.
“Harry, there’s something I should —” Joan began before Harry got anything out.
But before she could finish and let everyone know what it was, Megge squeezed around Edith Wistwode’s rotund bulk which blocked the doorway to the Broken Shield.
“Harry!” Megge called.
“I’m not talking to you,” Harry said, not taking his eyes off Joan.
“Bring the babies back safe,” Megge said.
“There’s a stink here,” Harry said. “We best get on.” He tore his eyes from Joan and gazed down the slope to Broad Street where a string of pack horses was making the laborious climb to High Street. He raised the reins and his horse started forward.
“Do you know how to make her stop, too?” Gilbert called as he pressed his heels to the mule’s sides.
“Better than you!” Harry shouted back.
They saw no one on the road from the time they climbed the hill from the Ludford Bridge across the River Teme until the north gate of Leominster hove into view — not a line of pack horses, heavily laden; not a cart; not a wagon; not a man or woman, stick in hand and a bundle on their backs or balanced on their heads. Even the fields were largely empty, apart from a distant shepherd or two, leaning against his stick and watching his dogs do the work. The countryside was quiet, vast and lonely.