Bad Money (A Stephen Attebrook mystery Book 6)

by Jason Vail

  An object in the tall grass caught his attention: a small block of wood with a carving at one end. Stephen stooped and recovered the carving. It was unmistakably Harry’s work: the head of Rosamond, the girl in the ice. He tapped the carving on the palm of his hand. This was must be the carving Harry had sold to Feyn the night he was murdered. One of the killers had picked it up at the Broken Shield, and must have dropped it here.

  There was a gap in the hedge at this spot, concealed by overhanging hawthorn branches. Someone had cut a passage with a pruning knife. Pushing the branches out of the way, he saw through into the back of a house, where a vegetable garden of cabbage, carrots, turnips and beans had been planted by the usual privy pit and woodpile. Two goats lifted their heads from the grass to inspect him.

  It was Gwenllian’s house.

  Stephen crossed the yard. One of Gwenllian’s daughters spotted him through a rear window and called out, “There’s a man in the garden!”

  Stephen heard rushed movement in the house as he neared the back door. He stepped over a pile of dried horse manure and was about to knock when he thought better of that idea, and pushed the door open. He entered the hallway separating the living quarters from the bier, where the goats were kept. No one met him in the hallway. He passed at the door to the living room. Two girls peered fearfully down at him from the loft. Gwenllian stood at the foot of the ladder, a hand ax over her shoulder, poised to strike.

  “Get out of my house!” Gwenllian snapped. “I’ll split your skull if you take another step!”

  “No, you won’t,” Stephen said, drawing his dagger in case Gwenllian decided to rush him.

  “Not in front of the children, please,” Gwenllian said, sounding less confident.

  “Not what in front of the children?”

  “My murder, or rape.”

  “I’ve no intention of committing either.”

  “What do you want, then?”

  “Same as before. The truth.”

  Gwenllian’s mouth quivered. Her chest heaved. “They said they’d kill me if I talked.”

  “Those fellows, the same as went by just now? I’m sure you heard the commotion and saw their heads over the hedge.”

  Gwenllian nodded.

  “They came for Wattepas, didn’t they.”

  She nodded.

  “And they took him away.”

  She nodded again.

  “He’s been coming here every morning.”

  “Yes.”

  “I doubt it was for your cooking.”

  “Of course it wasn’t. What does every man want more than a good meal?”

  “Do you happen to know any of them?”

  “Never seen them before in my life before Friday.”

  Stephen glanced up at the two girls, both black-haired like their mother. “Is that the truth?” he asked the girls.

  Both nodded. The blue-eyed daughter said, “They dragged Master Wattepas away and said they’d cut off mum’s face if she said a word about it.” The girl burst into tears. “Mum’s going to die now!”

  “No, she isn’t,” Stephen said. “No one will ever know she said a word.”

  He sheathed his dagger and backed out of the house. He left by the backdoor and the hole in the hedge so that none of the neighbors, who would otherwise be sure to note the event, could see that he had been here.

  Stephen hurried back to the Broken Shield. He climbed to his room at the top floor where he put on his gambeson, then struggled into his mail. He slipped on an arming cap, but left the coif down for now. His surcoat went over the mail, and then the sword belt and the second one for his dagger, small hand ax slipped into the belts at the small of his back beside the dagger. He put his barrel-shaped helmet under one arm and draped the strap of his shield over the other shoulder. He paused at the doorway, contemplating his bow which stood in the corner in its linen bag beside another linen bag full of arrows. He grabbed the straps of the bags and clambered down the stairs, at risk of tumbling the whole way, given the steepness of the stairs and the cumbersome burden.

  Edith spotted him in the hall and rushed over, alarmed at his appearance and at the thunderous expression on his face. “What’s the matter?” she cried “What’s going on?”

  There did not seem to be any point in withholding the news or softening it. He said, “Gilbert’s been taken by the same fellows who killed the fellow in the privy. I’m going to get him back.”

  “Taken!? What do you mean?” Edith stammered, disbelieving, hand flying to her mouth. “Why?”

  “Long story. No time.”

  Edith followed Stephen to the stable, stammering one question after another. He did not send her away, yet he did not answer any of her questions, either, which only prompted her to press harder. Still, he ignored her while he threw a saddle on one of the mares and slipped a bridle over her head. He mounted and rode out of the stable, the other mare on a halter and lead rope.

  “I’ll get him back,” Stephen called to Edith over his shoulder. “Don’t worry!”

  But she had every reason to worry. He had only two hours of sunlight left, at most, if he was to catch them before nightfall. And while he tried to sound confident for Edith’s sake, he felt only dread and the bitter sense that he had failed his best friend.

  Stephen had only a vague notion of what he would do when he caught up with the kidnappers: something like plunge into their midst and take out as many of them as possible in the first onslaught. They were unarmored and lacked shields, while he was fully armored. So the odds at first impression did not seem too daunting. But as he followed the track across the barley field behind Gwenllian’s house and his panic began to subside, he thought better of this plan. It was more likely to fail than not and he would be overwhelmed. Yet he was committed, so he kept onward.

  A narrow road suitable only for a single cart at a time ran east from St. Mary’s and marked the northern edge of the field. The tracks turned east upon the road. There was a fair degree of traffic on this road, and with nothing to distinguish the hoof prints of the enemy from those put down by any other horse, the enemy became hard to follow, especially once the St. Mary’s Road joined Upper Galdeford to become the road to Titterstone Clee. Stephen was reduced to watching the margins of the road for signs that the enemy had left it, but by sundown, when he had covered perhaps six miles and reached the turn off to Tenbury which was halfway to Cleobury Mortimer, he had seen nothing that indicated where they had gone.

  A sliver of moon lighted Stephen’s way back to Ludlow, the night quiet except for the thudding of the mares’ hooves and the hum of insects. It would have been a pleasant ride if Stephen’s mind had not been in such turmoil.

  He rode around the town to Broad Gate, following the town ditch, startling a group of homeless people taking refuge under the bridge at Old Street Gate.

  Broad Gate was closed, of course. The voice of one of the town watch came faintly over the wall, calling out all was well. Stephen wished that were true.

  He banged on the gate with his helmet, but there was no response, not even a voice calling to find out what was the matter. Gip, the chief warden of the tower, lived on the first floor behind windows shuttered against the night. Stephen contemplated those windows, then went searching for some stones, which he had to dislodge from the road bed with his toe. He stood back and threw one stone after another at one at the shuttered window. The stones glanced off the shutters with loud knocks.

  He was about to throw his last stone, when the shutters cracked open and an angry voice said, “If you don’t stop that, I’ll call the watch!”

  “I need to get in!”

  “It’s after curfew! No one gets in but a royal messenger. I doubt you can claim to be that!”

  “I represent the crown well enough.”

  “Who is this?”

  “Me.”

  “I don’t know anyone named ‘Me.’”

  “Stop it, Gip. It’s Stephen Attebrook.”

  “Well, why di
dn’t you say so straightaway?”

  “Because I like standing in the cold and the dark. Now open up and let me pass.”

  “Don’t be in such a hurry. I’ve got to be sure. Can’t grant admittance to some troublemaker.”

  The shutters closed. Some time passed before the sally door in the gate opened. Stephen stepped through, leading the mares.

  Gip was just inside, rubbing his hands. He held out a palm. It was customary to enrich the palm for an unauthorized night passage of the gate.

  “I’ve nothing for you, tonight, Gip. Sorry,” Stephen said. “I’ll make it up to you.”

  “Promises are thin gruel,” Gip grumbled. He went back inside the tower.

  The gate to the Broken Shield’s yard was latched as tightly as the town gate. Stephen got in the way he had done before at a similar late evening arrival, standing on the back of his horse to pull himself to the top of the wall and dropping inside to unlatch the gate and lead the horses through.

  He crossed a yard. All the stalls in the stable were occupied, so he tethered the mares to rings on the wall outside and removed the saddle and tack from the one he had ridden. Despite the desperate situation, he thought about the dinner and supper he had missed that day and considered slipping into the kitchen for whatever might have been left lying about by Baldwin, the cook.

  But first he had to water and feed the horses. Water he got from the well, setting buckets before the mares, which they ignored. Hay had to be got inside the stable. Stephen groped his way to the last stall to the left. He heard Harry, who shared the stall with the hay, breathing wheezily. Stephen slipped in and gathered an armful of hay.

  Harry stirred. “Who the devil is that?”

  “Just me.”

  “You’re back! Did you get him?”

  “No, I lost the trail.”

  Harry was quiet for a moment. “Does Edith know?”

  “I haven’t seen her yet.”

  “She was up and waiting for you when I retired.”

  “I am not looking forward to seeing her.”

  Stephen went out to the mares. Harry followed, pelting him with questions so that soon he had the whole story.

  “Do you really think they’ll kill him?” Harry asked.

  “I have a feeling they were not joking.”

  Stephen deposited hay before each of the mares. He took the carving out of his pouch and gave it to Harry. “I found this. Is it the one you sold Feyn?”

  Harry examined the carving in the moonlight. “I wish the light were better. You haven’t a candle on you by any chance?”

  “Sorry, no.”

  Harry ran his fingers over Rosamond’s face. “I think it’s the same one. How did you come by it?”

  “I found it near where Gilbert was taken.”

  “What was it doing there of all places? Oh! One of the mon-theofas? Dropped it getting away, eh?”

  Mon-theof . . . Stephen hadn’t heard that word, the old word for kidnapper, in a long time, not since an incident when he was a child and several young girls from a neighboring manor had been stolen by the Welsh. He said, “Dropped it, but not when he ran away with Gilbert. Earlier.”

  “They came to the same spot twice to do crime? What are they, fools?”

  “No, I think one of them lost it when they kidnapped Wattepas.”

  “You are making my head ache. Why would anyone kidnap Wattepas?”

  “I have no idea. Yet somehow his disappearance is connected with Feyn’s death.”

  “Well, you have more important things to do than look into that matter.”

  “Yes, they want those dies in exchange for Gilbert.”

  “But you gave them to the sheriff! He won’t give them to you for the asking. Not for Gilbert.”

  “No, I’ll have to steal them.”

  “I guess I’ll have to start preparing my speech for the wake.”

  “That might not be a bad idea. They’re probably in Hereford now, if not on their way to London.”

  “Hereford, you say?”

  “Henle was planning to dispatch them straightaway to the sheriff. Last I heard, Hereford is where he spends most of his time.”

  “Hmm. That means you have to get into Hereford Castle, find out where those gems are kept, snatch them and escape . . . without anyone being the wiser.”

  “That’s right.”

  “I know someone who works at the castle.”

  “So?”

  “He knows all the goings on, who’s humping whom, who hates whom, who owes money to whom.”

  “That’s not going to help.”

  “He should know where your little treasures are put for safekeeping. Assuming they’re there, of course.”

  “What’s his name?”

  “Theobald.”

  “Thanks, Harry.”

  “There’s one thing, though.”

  “What’s that?”

  “He’s not likely to help you, especially in something this dangerous.”

  “That’s not unexpected.”

  “But he might if I ask him.”

  “And how would we manage that?”

  “I’ll have to go with you, of course.”

  Chapter 12

  It took the better part of a day to reach Hereford, even though it was only about twenty-five miles away. Had Stephen been traveling alone, he would have covered the distance in half the time in the manner he was used to riding on Spanish raids: an alternate series of walks and trots of the horse that ate up ground. But Harry could not stay aboard the other mare at a trot, even when tied to the saddle, which was the only thing that kept him secure.

  Harry elicited stares as they ambled the last length of the journey down Frenschemanne Street, but not as if he was clad as a beggar: a legless beggar upon a horse would have been an extraordinary sight and difficult to explain. So this was a new Harry, bathed, shaved and coifed at first light and clad in Stephen’s spare coat and shirt, transformed into minor gentry until he opened his mouth, spoke and betrayed his real class. It was easier to explain a sorely wounded gentry man.

  “That way,” Harry said as they reached the end of Frenschemanne Street, where it dumped into Wydemarsh, the street leading northward to Wydemarsh Gate, which was visible a hundred-fifty yards away. “He lives on Jews Street. It’s just ahead.”

  “I know where it is,” Stephen said.

  He had some familiarity with Hereford, although in truth he could not recall ever having been down Jews Street. There were only half a dozen families of actual Jews on the street who lived in fine stone houses; the remainder of the residents were poor Christians. As they turned the corner and entered it, they met a cart with a broken axle lying tipsy against a wall, piles of garbage big enough to impede traffic that should have been cleared away, lines of washing hanging from ropes stretched from house to house.

  A fellow with a clay drinking pot poised before his lips — some of its contents evident on his shirt front — watched them with an open mouth. The man raised a finger to draw attention to the spectacle of Harry tied to his horse, and his lips twitched with the words that bubbled upon his tongue.

  Harry, who was quicker than Stephen to detect an insult, snapped, “One word out of you, boy, and my friend will have your head off!” in an unexpectedly good imitation of a gentry accent.

  One might doubt that threat. But still, one could never tell with the gentry; many were hot-headed and thought themselves above the law. This and the sword slapping against Stephen’s thigh as he glowered gave the pot-man pause, and they got by him safely, without insult or injury to anyone.

  “Here we are,” Harry said at a nondescript timber-framed house indistinguishable from its neighbors. “Sarah!” Harry called out, as Stephen dismounted. “Sarah! It’s me! Harry!”

  Moments later, a pretty blonde woman, her hair escaping from her wimple, came to the door.

  “You don’t look like Harry,” Sarah said. “But you sure sound like him. What are you doing up there, dressed
like that?”

  “I’ve come up in the world,” Harry said, as Stephen began to untie the leather straps that held him in place.

  “I doubt that,” Sarah said.

  “Really. Literally. I can see for miles up here.”

  “With your head stuck in the clouds, I’m surprised you can see anything at all. All I can say, is careful you don’t fall on your head. Not that that’s likely to do any harm, hard as it is.”

  “It runs in the family, I see,” Stephen said as he finished with the straps and carried Harry to the ground, while Harry muttered, “Gently, sir! Gently!”

  “What does, sir?” Sarah said.

  “Sharp talk,” Stephen said. “It’s a wonder you never murdered each other when you were young.”

  “Oh, we came close many times,” Harry said, propelling himself across the threshold without being invited as Stephen untied the board with rockers on the bottom Harry sat on while begging. “But mum was too fast for us.”

  “And too tough,” Sarah said.

  “She was that, God rest her soul,” Harry said. He called back over his shoulder, “We’ll put the horses up in the yard.”

  “You’re volunteering my yard?” Sarah asked. “What gives you the right to do that? Think of the mess they’ll cause!”

  “Come on, sister dear,” Harry’s voice came from the bowels of the house. “The least you can do is help us in our hour of need. Besides, they’ll fertilize that rat patch you call a garden.”

  “I offered to take you in when that bitch left you with nothing, you ass. That was offer enough,” Sarah said to herself. She realized that Stephen had overheard this. “He said he didn’t want to be a burden. Come on, sir,” she added, grasping the halter rope of the mare Harry had ridden. “I’ll show you the way.”

  The way happened to be straight through the house. There were three boys who appeared to range from four to eight playing in the hall, racing about and shouting at some game only they understood, but this activity stopped at the appearance of the horses. The boys watched the procession in astonishment, then fell in behind, prancing about and renewing the shouting, Sarah admonishing them to stay away from the back hooves of the horses. “Don’t startle them! That’s a good way to get killed!” she kept saying without effect. “Behave!”