by Jason Vail
However, everyone reached the rear garden without injury. Stephen unsaddled the horses while Sarah sent all the children for hay, which got them out of the way.
“May I ask, sir,” Sarah said, “what you are doing with this great lump?”
“Trying to save a friend,” Stephen said.
“We need to talk to Theo,” Harry said. “We need his help.”
“He’ll be home at sundown. I don’t like the sound of this. Why is that?”
Supper was before sundown in the ordinary house, but the family waited for Theobald to come home. When he arrived, it was evident why they had this custom, for he carried a cloth satchel full of leftovers from the castle kitchen.
“One thing I’ll say about my job, sir,” Theobald said as Sarah set out what he’d brought — a small round of ham, herring, shelled peas, cheese and bread — “we don’t go hungry. Stop that, Harry!” he commanded. At first Stephen thought Theo meant the Harry he knew, but the order was directed toward the middle son, who had reached for the herring. Harry the younger snatched his hand back. “We’ll say our prayer, first,” Theo said, bowing his head.
The prayer finished, the boys were unleashed to eat, although Sarah shot an admonishment at them now and then to mind their manners on account of their guests.
“Uncle Harry don’t care,” muttered the oldest boy, Mike.
“Think of his friend, then, who is a gentleman,” Sarah said, “and wipe your mouth. I’ve known wolf packs that were better behaved!”
“There ain’t no wolves in England.”
“That may be,” Stephen said, “but there are in Scotland, which isn’t that far off. I’ve seen them.”
“Really?” Mike and Harry the younger said together, which led Stephen to a story about how he had been pursued across the moors by a pack of wolves, an entirely made up tale as far as the wolves and the location were concerned; the wolves in the true story had been human and the chase had occurred in Spain.
That story and a few others concluded and the last morsel consumed, Sarah packed the children upstairs to bed, where the family slept in the loft at the rear of the house. Theo put the soiled trenchers, platters and bowls in a bucket in the kitchen to soak overnight, and returned to the table in the hall.
“Sarah said you need my help,” Theo said. “It’s about a friend of yours, or something.”
“Our landlord,” Harry said.
“Why anyone would want to help their landlord, I cannot imagine,” Theo said. “Greedy lot, they are. Worse than millers.”
“This fellow’s not so bad,” Stephen said.
“I suppose. But what does this have to do with me?” Theo asked.
“He’s been kidnapped,” Stephen said. “The kidnappers will kill him if I don’t give them a set of dies I found on a fellow murdered at our inn.”
“So give them to them.”
“I don’t have them. I turned them over to the undersheriff and he sent them to Hereford.”
“Ah,” Theo nodded. “Yes, a messenger came the other day from Ludlow with a set of dies for minting money. I recall that now. Seized from a counterfeiter, or something like that.”
“Are they still here?” Stephen asked.
“As far as I know. I reckon they should have been sent on to the mint at London, but I think I heard the undersheriff mention he was holding them for our new sheriff, fellow named Arundel, to dispose of them. Should be here any day.”
“The Earl of Arundel? Percival FitzAllan?” Stephen asked, alarmed.
“Yeah. Why?”
“He and Sir Stephen don’t get along very well,” Harry said. “Something about the beating of some of the earl’s supporters, and the murder of one of them. There was also an accusation of a castle burning thrown in as well.” At Theo’s astonished expression, Harry added, “Sir Steve’s a talented fellow.”
“Talented for getting in trouble, it seems. Can’t say I envy you now that FitzAllan’s our sheriff. But what about these dies? If the sheriff’s got them, they’re no use to you.”
“I need to take them back.”
Theo was quiet, contemplating the implications. “You mean you want to steal them.”
“That was my thought,” Stephen said.
“Well, then, you can get out of my house right now,” Theo said. “I’ll have no part of such a scheme, or put my family at risk for it.”
“At least, tell me where they’ve been put,” Stephen said. “And we’ll trouble you no more.”
“They’re in the treasury, in the tower on the motte. You’ve no chance in hell of getting in or out of there. Only those known to the wardens are allowed in and there are two on watch all the time. Give up this mad plan. Go to the sheriff. Explain your need. I’m sure he’ll help you on something as serious as a kidnapping.”
“We don’t think that’s likely,” Harry said. “The authorities have no love for either Stephen or Gilbert.” He glanced into the darkness in the corners. “I’m afraid Gilbert is as good as done for.”
Chapter 13
Stephen and Harry said their good-byes to Sarah and Theo the next morning, the sky low, fog filling the streets and obscuring the tops of the houses and the city wall behind them.
Theo helped lift Harry to his saddle, then with a “See you around, Harry,” he set off toward the castle. He paused briefly, eyes narrowing as he regarded them, lips pursed as he pursued some thought. But he did not express whatever was on his mind. He turned away toward Bishopsgate Street which was out of view beyond the curve of the street.
Harry watched Theo over his shoulder as they went in the other direction toward a cheap inn Theo had told them about next to Wydemarsh Gate.
“I actually thought he might have some idea what to do,” Harry said.
“Why would you think that?” Stephen asked, leading the horses.
“He was a master burglar before he married my sister. No place was safe from him. He could steal the shit out of a lord’s ass with no one the wiser.”
“I’ll have to do it myself. At least I know where the dies are kept without having to ask.”
Stephen put up the mare Harry had ridden and left Harry at the inn by Wydemarsh Gate, taking the second horse with him. Pulling up the hood of his traveling cloak against a misty rain, he set out down Wydemarsh Street, walking on the margins as much for the shelter the houses’ overhangs afforded as to avoid the mud churned up by the passage of feet and carts. Walking in deep mud was a good way to have a boot sucked right off your foot.
His objective was the castle, at least to have a look around and hope some brilliant plan presented itself. But inquiries along the way revealed that the goldsmiths were quartered along Broad Lane, which was close by and proved to be broad only metaphorically: it was hardly wide enough for two carts to pass each other, Saint Ethelbert’s Cathedral visible as he rounded the bend at the lower end, where the goldsmiths were concentrated.
There were six of them, more than you’d expect for a town of Hereford’s size.
He stopped at the first one on the left and asked the journeyman who answered his knock on the counter about Nicholas Feyn. The journeyman poked a thumb in the direction of the cathedral. “Worked next door. Although you won’t find him there. We heard he drowned in a privy.” The journeyman smirked. “A fitting end, I’d say, after the trouble he caused around here over the years.”
“Not well liked, I take it.”
“Not by most. What’s your interest in him? He owe you money? If he did, you’re out of luck. He’s left no fortune, I’m sure. Every penny that passed through his fingers went for drink or whores.”
“It’s strictly professional,” Stephen said.
“Professional how?” the journeyman asked.
“I am the deputy coroner for Ludlow.”
“Really? Are you conducting some sort of inquiry?”
“I am interested in what he was doing in Ludlow. It seems a strange place for him to be.”
“Perhaps not that st
range, when you know something about him. But it’s not my place to tell the tale of his life.” The journeyman called over his shoulder to a someone who could be heard moving about in an interior room of the shop, “I’m going to Fretgoose’s for a moment.” He disappeared from the counter and emerged through the doorway a moment later. “Let’s go straight to the horse’s mouth.”
The journeyman had to go only a few feet to put himself at the counter of his competitor. He called into the shop, “Can you fetch Master Fretgoose? There’s a fellow here who wants to know about Feyn!”
“What for?” came the reply from someone who could not be seen. “The bastard’s dead! Did that ass owe him money?”
“He says not!” the journeyman answered. “He claims to be the coroner from Ludlow —”
“The deputy coroner,” Stephen muttered, but the journeyman did not take notice.
“— and he’s conducting some sort of inquiry!”
An apprentice who had been listening to this exchange while he smoothed kinks out of a sheet of what appeared to be gold put down the sheet. “I’ll fetch him, Meetham.”
“So good of you, James,” the journeyman Meetham said.
James retreated into the house and came back a short time later followed by a man in his late thirties.
“I am Fretgoose,” the man said, looking Stephen over. “The Ludlow coroner, eh?”
“Deputy coroner,” Stephen said.
By this time, everyone in the house had been alerted to this curiosity and the shop filled to overflowing so that some of the curious had to spill out the doorway into the street. This caught the attention of some passers-by as well as the occupants of the neighboring shops so that within moments a considerable crowd had gathered round to participate in the inquiry.
“What do you want to know?” Fretgoose asked, hooking his thumbs into his belt.
“But first, tell us,” someone in the crowd called out, “did he really drown in a privy?”
“He was knocked over the head first,” Stephen said.
“Someone that bastard cheated, I’ve no doubt!” called out someone else, rising above a general babble of agreement.
“We thought that might be the case,” Stephen said. “But it turned out he was the one cheated.”
“That son-of-a-bitch got what was coming to him!” yet another voice called out.
“But,” Stephen went on despite the interruption, “there is reason to believe that he was killed for another reason.”
“Couldn’t have been about a woman, could it?” Fretgoose asked. “He had a habit of annoying the wives of other men.”
“We don’t think so,” Stephen said. “A set of dies for striking money were found on his person. We think the killer or killers were after them.”
This revelation caused Fretgoose to grow thoughtful, although many in the crowd again started talking at once about what this news might mean. Fretgoose raised a hand for silence and the crowd gradually quieted.
“A set of dies for coining money, you say,” Fretgoose said. “Curious.”
“Why would you say that?” Stephen asked, although he was ready to agree it was curious indeed.
“Back when I was an apprentice under old master Bysouth, we contracted to the bishop to produce the coin during the Long Coinage.”
Stephen frowned. “You mean when the Long Cross coins were minted.”
Fretgoose nodded. “Fifteen, twenty years ago, it is now. Feyn and Leofwine Wattepas engraved the dies for the Hereford mint. Well, Feyn did mostly, for his was the better work. Wattepas’ was decent enough but not up to standard.”
“Wattepas?” Stephen asked, surprised.
“Yes, we all worked together for Master Bysouth, I as an apprentice then, and Feyn and Wattepas as journeyman.”
“Tell him the story about the dies, Fretgoose!” someone called from the crowd.
Fretgoose nodded. “A set of dies went missing from the mint. They were found in Feyn’s chamber.” He pointed above. “Naturally there was an accusation made that he stole them with an intent to make false money. But Wattepas came forward and admitted that he had mistakenly taken them from the mint instead of returning them to the chest where they should have been kept. People had doubts about that — that Feyn meant to steal them and Wattepas covered for him.”
“Why would they think that?” Stephen asked.
“They were fast friends,” Fretgoose said. “Wattepas was the only person in the world who could put up with Feyn, you see. That’s why they shared the same chamber. It must have been the bowls. They made a formidable pair. Never beaten on the pitch. Made quite a lot of money bowling, too. Wattepas saved every penny, while Feyn drank and gambled his away.”
“Wattepas wasn’t punished?” Stephen asked.
“He was fined, of course. Could have lost a hand. But he was very well liked. The upshot of it was he had to leave town. That’s how he ended up in Ludlow.”
“I see,” Stephen said, although he really didn’t. The doings of the guilds was outside his experience. “And Feyn remained here?”
“He could have taken the same route as Wattepas, since he was never accepted by the masters here, but he never managed to accumulate enough money to buy himself in elsewhere. He resented being passed over for master when old Bysouth died. Never got over that, and being subject to my discipline. I finally had to let him go a couple of months ago. Then he disappeared. No one had any idea where he’d gone until a traveler brought word of his death in Ludlow. We thought he’d gone up there to see Wattepas. Wattepas himself was down here a couple of months ago on a visit about the same time Feyn disappeared.”
“Wattepas came to visit Feyn? Wasn’t that unusual?” Stephen asked.
“I’d say it was. They hardly had anything to do with each other after Wattepas left, as far as I know. Anything else we can help you with?”
“Thanks,” Stephen said, his mind in a whirl as he tried to make sense of what he had just been told. “I don’t think so.”
Stephen stood in the street for a few moments digesting what he’d heard as the crowd broke up and people returned to work.
Chapter 14
One of the two gate wards rose from his stool as Stephen rode across the wooden bridge from the town. He stood in the way and said, “Who might you be, sir, if you pardon my asking?”
“My name’s Stephen Attebrook. I’m the deputy coroner for Ludlow. I’d like to see the undersheriff.”
“A moment, sir,” the ward said. He disappeared through the doorway to the gate tower.
He emerged a few moments later behind a knight who had to be the captain of the guard.
The captain looked Stephen over with an appraising eye. “You’re Sir Stephen? I’ve heard of you. I know your brother.”
Stephen nodded. “I am he.”
“He says you’re crippled. I don’t see any sign of it.”
“I hide it well. And you are?”
“I am Roger de Thornhill. What is your business with Sir Hugh?”
“I’ve been sent by Walter Henle to inquire about the business of Nicholas Feyn and how he came into possession of a set of dies for minting money.”
“I doubt Sir Hugh can shed any light on the matter.”
“Nonetheless, I feel bound to see what he might know.”
Stephen walked the horse across the great bailey, taking in as much detail of the castle’s layout as he could. The bailey itself was one of the biggest he’d ever seen: at least two-hundred yards across from the base of the motte, a great mound of earth capped by a round stone tower, to the east wall. A monastery occupied the southeast corner, cut off from the bailey by its own low wall. There even was an orchard and spacious vegetable garden to the left beside the monastery. Two great halls stood within the bailey across from the main gate, a grim building of red stone like Saint Ethelbert’s Cathedral, tall and long, with high narrow windows, the ones flanking the main door giving the appearance of an elongated face and gaping mouth, chimne
ys poking upward. There were also buildings for a prison, a large garrison and workshops for the manufacture of mangonels and catapults.
The motte was enormous to match the bailey, at least ten times the height of a man, so steep and deep in high grass that it seemed impossible a man could keep his footing upon it. Steps encased by stone walls taller than a man descended from the tower’s entrance, a squat forebuilding, to a point not far from the great hall where they ended in another stone gate flanked by square towers. An armed storming party would be hard pressed to pry open that tower.
Stephen left the mare in the hands of a groom at the foot of the stairway to the great hall. He climbed the steps and entered the hall. There were men about the fireplace to the right at the far end of the great chamber. Stephen recognized Hugh de Breton among them by sight. They had never spoken or been introduced. Now that he was here, he had to go over and say something.
De Breton was more careworn than Stephen remembered. He had to be nearly fifty and his hair had gone fully gray. His face had begun to sag. Gray eyes peered at Stephen over a broken nose and drooping mouth.
“My lord,” Stephen said when he reached the group at the fireplace. “Good day to you.”
“Who are you?” de Breton asked. “I don’t think we’ve met.”
“I am Stephen Attebrook.”
“Attebrook? Attebrook? Ah — the one who’s been causing so much trouble at Ludlow. All those murders! What are you doing here?”
“Sir Walter sent me to inquire about Nicholas Feyn, and how he came to be in possession of dies for minting money.”