by Jason Vail
Amicia looked as stunned and appalled as Stephen at this outcry, though if the outcry did not prove fatal and he had a chance to consider what was happening, he would not be too surprised. Peter Bromptone’s family were big supporters of the rebels and Simon de Montfort.
“Out the back way!” Amicia hissed and pushed Stephen toward the hall. “There’s no wall!”
She had no opportunity to say more, but he knew immediately what she meant. The Bromptones’ house lay on the south side of the street, the river side, and their garden probably extended as far as the Severn. And there was no wall along the river.
Stephen did not waste time seeking further explanations. He ran through the hall, down the passage to the pantry and buttery, and threw open the rear door to the house, to the open-mouthed amazement of two servants there in the kitchen. The back garden was indeed large, stretching more than fifty yards toward a wicker fence at the back. Beyond that was a cherry orchard.
Stephen crossed the yard without feeling his feet hit the ground and put a hand on the wicker fence to vault it, but the wicker was old and brittle, and it collapsed beneath his weight, crackling with the agony of its demise. He picked himself up and kept going.
As he ran among the trees, he searched left and right for the lookouts who had been along the riverbank. He saw none, and none should be expected once Edward moved his army, but there were at least six men armed with swords spilling over the broken fence in pursuit. Although Stephen felt as if his feet had wings, he couldn’t run as fast with his bad foot as he could before his injury, and they were gaining.
Stephen reached the bank and stumbled down the steep slope. The tide was running in, the current working against a fallen tree on the opposite bank. He paused only long enough to draw the parchment from its hiding place at the top of his stocking. He clamped the parchment in his teeth and plunged into the water.
He was prepared for the cold, but he gasped so strongly as the frigid water curled around him that he nearly spit out the parchment.
Somehow, he held onto it, and was able to stroke hard for the west bank.
He staggered out when he reached the bank, out of breath because of the difficulty of breathing through a mouthful of parchment, and looked to see what the pursuit was up to. Six men were gathered at the top of the east bank. They appeared angry and a bit disgusted that Stephen had got away so easily.
“Back to the horses,” their leader spat. “We’ll catch him. He can’t outrun us in the fields.”
In the fields … the rebel leader meant the fields here on the west bank, where cows and sheep had grazed in more peaceful times and where Edward’s army had camped before it crossed the Severn.
Stephen knew exactly what the leader had in mind, too. The enemy had dashed back to their horses and as he ran through the field along the bank, they were undoubtedly galloping through the West Gate, across the newly repaired bridge, and coming after him as fast as they could flog the horses.
Stephen glanced over his shoulder and there they were, turning off the causeway road by the big oak that stood at the foot of the bridge, and dashing into the field. They were only about two-hundred yards behind him and a galloping horse could cover that distance in half a minute.
He resigned himself to swimming back across the river. But then he noticed that two of his pursuers had brought their horses into the rear gardens on the other side of the river. They marked his progress for their fellows and cut off any chance he had of escaping in that direction.
Stephen was cursing Peter Bromptone for his betrayal — you’d think that saving him from the gallows was worth the favor of silence no matter what your political inclinations — when he ran smack into a boat concealed in the grass. The upper strake barked Stephen’s shin and his momentum carried into the boat. He caught himself from cracking his head open, barely, and realized this was the boat he and the boys had brought down from Worcester. His captors in the king’s army had pulled it out and left it.
It still had its oars, too. A miracle.
Stephen grasped the bow and tugged it toward the river.
The pursuing horsemen were so close that he could hear the pounding of the hooves on the turf. Across the water, warning shouts went up when the two men on that bank saw what he was doing.
At first, the bow refused to budge. But it finally gave way to Stephen’s severest jerk, or it might have flinched at his profanity. Whatever the cause, Stephen and the rowboat lurched toward the bank.
The bow reached the drop off. Stephen gave another monumental yank; the boat teetered; then it slid down the bank and knifed into the water. This happened so quickly that Stephen had to dive for the stern and he and the boat drifted into the current, with Stephen hanging in the water, getting chilled to the bone again but saving the parchment from the wet with clenched teeth. He should be used to the cold and wet after so many dunkings in so short a time, but each experience was unpleasant.
The incoming tide carried Stephen back toward West Bridge and the boat eddied near the west bank, where four armed horsemen had halted. Two dismounted and slid down the bank. They waded into the river to continue the pursuit, but Stephen managed to pull himself into the boat and to run out the oars. A few strokes took him into the middle of the river, where he pivoted the bow downriver and hauled away.
It required considerable effort to fight the tide and make headway, not made any easier by the fact he kept the parchment clamped between his teeth. The boat moved at such a crawl that the men on foot were able to keep abreast of Stephen all the way down to the castle’s bridge while the horsemen on the east bank did the same.
It was almost half a mile to the castle bridge and Stephen was puffing like an old cow when he finally reached it. Someone had pulled out the butt for the boom chain on the west back so that the chain no longer blocked the river. However, there was still a guard from the castle garrison on both the west and east banks to frustrate any attempt to use the bridge to harass Lord Edward’s army from the rear. Because of that guard, the pursuers on the west bank halted some distance from the bridge and turned back, while those on the east bank followed Stephen as far as the castle ditch.
Stephen turned the boat’s nose toward the bank at the castle quay. The prow struck the bank with a jolt. He shipped the oars and clambered out of the boat, keeping a hand on the upper strake to prevent it from returning back upriver with the tide.
He looked up to spearheads pointing in his direction.
“Sir!” one of the soldiers above called. “Over here!”
Presently, a knight by the symbol on his tabard and the quality of his helmet and mail came through the line of spearmen.
“It’s all right, lads,” the knight said. “I know him.” The knight frowned as he eyed Stephen’s shabby, sodden coat and faded stockings. “What are you up to, Attebrook? Why are you dressed like that?”
“A bit of spying,” Stephen said.
“Spying?” the knight said, taken aback and with unconcealed distaste.
“Yes,” Stephen said. “This is how the best ones operate.” He waved the parchment. “I need to see Lord Edward right away. Oh, and you might want to pull this boat out. No sense letting the enemy have use of it.”
Chapter 18
The negotiations did not get underway until the arrival of Bishop Walter de Cantiloupe on Friday, the seventh of March, the day after Stephen’s stroll into Gloucester.
At first, the rebels proposed that Edward march away and leave them in possession of Gloucester. It seems they thought he was eager to return to Oxford and the king to prevent his father’s capture. Moreover, being outnumbered, the rebels worried that Edward would pursue and try to bring them to battle, one which they had no confidence of winning. None but the bare proposal was said aloud, of course, but the rest was easily guessed.
Edward countered by demanding the release of the twenty-one prisoners as a condition for having talks at all.
“I will not speak a word to you until those men
whom you have seized are freed,” Edward said, feigning great anger at the opening session.
Henry de Montfort and Giffard protested that no one had been seized, that a small number of men had been taken into custody for their own protection during the troubles that had broken out in the town during the fighting. There was still the possibility of violence against them, so they had to be kept safe.
But Edward produced Stephen’s list and said, “I have it on good authority from people in Gloucester that you have seized these men, plundered their property, and intend to hold them for ransom.” He read off the names, set the list on his lap and glared at Henry.
“Is this true?” the bishop asked Henry. “You’ve arrested the king’s supporters in Gloucester?”
Henry’s mouth opened, shut and opened again. He nodded, while Giffard, who had hoped to get rich off the ransoms, stared sourly at the ground.
“I think as a gesture of good faith you should release these men right away,” the bishop said.
“See it done,” Henry muttered to one of his companions.
“I want them brought here,” Edward said. “I want to see them and to know they are safe.”
“Very well,” Henry said.
Rebel men-at-arms escorted the prisoners out of South Gate and delivered them to pickets of the royal army on Lower Southgate Street.
The pickets took the prisoners to Edward’s tent in the field west of the street so that he could inspect them and speak to them.
Word the men had been released and had arrived shot through the camp with the speed of gossip. Stephen and Gilbert hurried to Edward’s tent, leaving an aggrieved Harry by the fire with a “We’ll be right back!” tossed over a shoulder as they departed.
“Sure you will!” Harry shouted at them. “I’ll be holding my breath!”
Edward was speaking to the former prisoners as Stephen and Gilbert reached the crowd in front of the prince’s red and blue tent. Edward said something that sounded like, “and I’ll ensure that all of you are compensated fully for your loss!” Stephen didn’t listen closely to the speech. He was too busy counting heads and arriving at only twenty men, not twenty-one. He counted twice to be sure.
He tugged on the sleeve of one of the ex-prisoners, a broad-shouldered fellow with an ample belly jutting over a wide belt and a green coat missing its buttons which had probably been cut off because they were silver.
“Excuse me,” Stephen said as the man turned to see who it was. “There’s only twenty of you. I thought there were twenty-one.”
“I don’t know about that,” the fellow said. “Never counted. It was too dark inside to see most times, anyway.”
Stephen nodded. “Can you point out Abelard Morecok? I understand he’s one of your number.”
“He was,” the man said.
“Was?”
“He died last night. Some kind of sickness.”
“A sickness?” Stephen said, appalled by this news. He felt hope seep out of him like ale from a leaky barrel. “What kind of sickness?” Stephen wasn’t really expecting much of an answer; he didn’t really care what killed Morecok. The fact he was dead left him and Harry with no trail to follow. Morecok was their only connection with the boys. They were truly lost now.
“A shortness of breath. He suffered it now and then, especially in the spring. This time it was fatal.” The fellow turned away. “Made horrible sounds. The damned man didn’t even have the common decency to die quietly.”
Stephen was about to go when the man in the green coat asked, “What did you want with Morecok anyway?”
“He bought two children of a friend,” Stephen said.
Green coat’s mouth turned down in distaste. “I’ve heard he did such things.”
“Often?”
“I can’t say it was often, or even if it was true. There was gossip about it. That’s all I know.” Green coat rubbed an unshaven chin then plucked a strand of straw from his disheveled hair. “Morecok was a man interested in a profit and wasn’t particular how he made it.”
“And no one ever thought to determine if they were true, these rumors?” Gilbert asked.
“He was free with his money in the taverns and well-liked, for the most part — by those whom he hadn’t cheated,” green coat said. “So, no one felt compelled to dig deeply into Morecok’s affairs.”
“What did he do with the people he bought?” Stephen asked.
“Sold them on, I suppose,” green coat said. “You can’t keep villeins in the town. It’s against the law.” He added rather proudly, “A man’s free once he steps through the gates.”
“Would his wife know anything about this?” Gilbert asked.
“Ah,” green coat said. “He didn’t have a wife. She died. Ate a bad mushroom a couple of years ago.”
“And he never remarried?” Gilbert asked.
“I said he didn’t have a wife,” green coat said. He scratched the side of his nose with a finger. “There is someone you might ask. The manager of his warehouse is here.”
“By here, you mean among these men?” Gilbert asked.
“I mean in town,” green coat said.
“Where can we find this manager?” Stephen asked.
“Symon lives above the warehouse. It’s right outside the gate at Quay Lane. First on the left.”
It was still not safe for any of the king’s men to wander through Gloucester, so the only access to the town quay was along the riverfront. A crude plank bridge had been thrown up across the castle ditch in the south to allow Lord Edward’s army to cross from the castle, which occupied the southwest corner of the town, and had not been taken down. But there was no similar bridge, of course, to the north because the enemy might use it to attack the weak river wall of the castle.
There were spare boards, however, stacked by the foot of the castle bridge, and Stephen prevailed on the officer of the watch to order a few soldiers to lay a couple of planks across the ditch to the town quay to the north. The planks weren’t long enough to stretch across the top of the ditch, but they were enough to reach over the water at the bottom, so Stephen and Gilbert did not have to get wet when they crossed. Stephen knew from the fight over the boom chain a few days ago that the water likely was up to his armpits at this point in a rising tide, which meant Gilbert’s nose just might clear the surface.
“If there’s trouble, you’ll have to get back as best you can,” the officer said as he stood with them at the top of the ditch overlooking the crude plank bridge. “I’m pulling that up as soon as you’re over.”
“You think there will be trouble?” Stephen asked. “There’s a truce.”
“I wouldn’t trust them to keep it,” the officer said, looking up at enemy watchmen on the town walls.
Stephen and Gilbert slipped down the weedy V of the ditch to their end of the crude bridge.
“You first,” Stephen said.
Gilbert prodded one of the boards, which wobbled. The board was not grounded in anything but earth and grass.
“Step carefully,” Stephen said.
“Your sage advice is appreciated,” Gilbert said.
He placed one foot, then the other on the planks and edged across. At the end of the plank bridge, he threw himself on the steep bank, grasping handfuls of grass to keep from sliding down into the mire.
“Help!” Gilbert called over his shoulder.
“Dig your toes in, damn it! I’m coming!” Stephen said as he strode quickly across, landing beside Gilbert.
Stephen gripped Gilbert’s belt and heaved him upwards to the sounds of laughter coming from the town wall and the king’s soldiers behind them.
Gilbert brushed strands of grass from his knees when he gained the top and stood up, striving for a dignified look which escaped him, although the laughter subsided as the onlookers settled their bets about whether Gilbert would get wet going over.
“This had better be worth the risk of my life,” Gilbert muttered as he and Stephen set off toward the quay gate.<
br />
“You didn’t have to come,” Stephen said, waving to the sentinels above him, who kept pace on the wall walk.
“You’d have just bollixed things up,” Gilbert said. “Besides, I must be there in case you feel inclined to indulge in torture to get your questions answered.”
“I prefer Harry as a conscience. He’s more flexible,” Stephen said.
“That’s a nice way of putting it. He hasn’t the conscience of an earthworm. And I say that not wishing to malign the earthworm.”
Morecok’s warehouse was not hard to find. It stood to the right of the quay gate. Its ground floor was built of stone with two stories of timber upper floors, its roof reaching the top of the wall. It had a great double door, like a barn. In normal times, it probably was a bustling place, but today, the doors stood open and there was no one about.
“I’ll relieve you of having to act as my conscience,” Stephen said. “Keep an eye on that gate. If it opens, give a shout.”
Stephen strode through the doors into the warehouse while Gilbert, spotting more watchers above them, called out, “Hallo there! Just attending to some personal business! Nothing to see here! We won’t be long!”
Stephen expected to see the warehouse filled with boxes, barrels and bags, but the place was almost empty except for piles of broken barrels, shattered boxes and assorted rubbish, as well as a pile of what appeared to be bluish gravel taller than a man at a far corner. The roof in half the building rose to a distant, crook-built ceiling; the other half were the two timbered floors sitting over more storage space. It was dim inside and Stephen failed to notice a man sitting at the top stair to the first floor, where there was a porch.
“You’re wasting your time,” the man said. “We’ve been picked clean.”
“I didn’t come for plunder,” Stephen said, halting at the foot of the stairs. “Besides, I’m from the king’s army.”
“What brings you here?”