Bad Money (A Stephen Attebrook mystery Book 6)

by Jason Vail

  “Yes, I read your letter.” De Breton’s hand fluttered in Stephen’s direction. “You did not have to come. I have an inquiry underway. Never you mind.”

  “Nonetheless, sir, I have my orders. I cannot report back to Sir Walter that I’ve learned nothing.”

  “I appreciate your dilemma, but I shall take care of it.” De Breton blinked, eyes narrowing. “Have you learned anything?”

  “Only that Feyn disappeared two months ago, and no one knows where he went or why.”

  De Breton grunted. “That is hardly helpful.” He went on then, with a hint of slyness, “And I already have some idea what Feyn was up to in any case.”

  “Might I know that to share with Sir Walter?”

  “No, you may not! We shall take care of things!”

  “Very good, my lord.”

  “Henle ought to mind his own lands and not poke about in the business of others. You can stay the night, if you please, but you’d best be off for Ludlow in the morning.” De Breton turned back to the other men about the fire.

  “Thank you, my lord,” Stephen said to the back of de Breton’s head. It had been an uncomfortable interview, without any real purpose other than to be seen to have some business even if that business was imaginary, and he was glad it had ended. He withdrew across the hall.

  He walked down to the stable which lay some distance from the great halls along the west wall. A groom sat on a stool by the door on watch in case he and the others were needed. The groom rose as Stephen arrived. Stephen waved to the groom to return to his stool. “Where’s my horse?” he asked.

  “To the right,” the groom replied. “Third stall.”

  “Thanks.

  “Your servant, sir.”

  The mare’s saddle had not been removed, but the bridle was hanging from a hook outside the stall. Stephen draped the bridle over a shoulder. He was about to untie the rope across the doorway when someone entered and came up behind him. Stephen glanced about to see who it was; he didn’t like people sneaking up behind him.

  It was Theo.

  Theo checked left and right. He whispered, “You’ve a chance to stay the night. You should take it.”

  “Why should I do that?”

  “Hush! Keep your voice down. We can’t have that lad,” he nodded toward the door, “overhearing.”

  “All right, then,” Stephen went on in a whisper, “why should I do that?”

  “Because I’ve been thinking about your problem.”

  “I thought you wanted nothing to do with it.”

  “I’ve reconsidered.”

  “Why would you do that?”

  “Well, there’s got to be a profit in it. Those things aren’t worth much by themselves, but there’s got to be a price you’re willing to pay.”

  “There might be. Do you have something in mind?”

  “One of those horses of yours. I’ve always fancied having one of my own. But even the cheap ones are so expensive.”

  “And if I promise this horse, you can get me in the tower?”

  “Oh, yes. I’ve had harder jobs in my day. Lord, I do miss it so. It was such fun.”

  Chapter 15

  Stephen struggled to stay awake in the chamber where he had been allotted a bed among the younger knights and squires. It was hard to tell the passage of time in the dark. The air smelled of rain. Now and then a flash of lightning illuminated the cracks in the shutters, and thunder grumbled in the distance.

  He drew off the blanket and swung his legs out of bed, the ropes holding up the straw-filled mattress and the frame creaking.

  Stephen stood up, tensing for the slightest sign that one of the sleepers had heard. Unlike everyone else, he had gone to bed fully clothed even down to his boots. Although it was the practice to sleep naked, no one had remarked upon this, and he hoped that no one would remember it. He collected his cloak, which he had rolled up and used for a pillow, and, dropping to his hands and knees, felt his way across the floor to the doorway.

  A flash of lightning provided enough light that he could see he was headed for a wall. He changed direction, crept between two cots, and reached the doorway without anyone waking up and without upsetting the chamber pot by the door. He rose, lifted the latch, and slipped into the stairway.

  Stephen felt his way down the stairs to the tower’s undercroft which was filled with barrels and sacks and smelled musty.

  He pulled the cloak over his head and went out to the yard.

  The knights’ quarters were across the bailey from the hall, but even with the dark and rain, which had driven the watch to shelter, Stephen did not dare take the direct route. He skirted to the wall of the monastery, passed the cattle pen, tip-toed by the pig-sty so as not to startle the pigs which were prone to a commotion if disturbed, and stopped at the barn, which stood against the south wall. A flash of lightning, followed immediately by a blast of thunder, lit up the bailey such that Stephen could see his own shadow and burned into his eyes the image of puddles across the bailey spattered by raindrops. A voice spoke from above his head: “I’ll be right there.”

  Some uncomfortable moments passed with the rain dappling on his hood and no shelter anywhere. Then the barn door opened and Theo slipped out. He had a thick rope coiled around his shoulder. “Lovely evening, isn’t it?”

  “Very. I love a good rain. I could do without the lightning, though.”

  “We’ll have to make the best of it. Best put these on,” Theo said. He handed Stephen a pair of thick leather gloves while he pulled a pair on his own hands. “Helps protect the hands.”

  “From what?”

  “The rope can be nasty.”

  Theo led the way past the stable and hall to the ditch separating the motte and tower from the bailey. The ditch was deep and steep-sided, V-shaped, and the grass slick so that they nearly lost their footing as they slid to the bottom. They made their way to the gate tower, which stood upon the slope above a wooden drawbridge over the ditch. Stephen glanced up through the pummeling of the raindrops to the top of the tower for any sign of the watch but it was so dark that he could barely make out the outline of the crenellations let alone a man who might be lurking up there.

  Theo climbed the motte to a point just above the gate tower. “We’ll do it here.”

  Stephen put his back against the wall and cupped his hands. Theo stood on those hands and stepped to Stephen’s shoulder. Stephen raised a hand above his head. Theo stepped upon that hand, and then the other. Stephen strained to raise Theo as far as he could. Just when he thought he might collapse, the weight was gone. He looked up and saw Theo crouching at the top of the wall.

  Theo wrapped the rope around his waist, then dropped an end to Stephen and braced himself. Stephen took hold of the rope, gave it a tug to see if it was secure enough, and clambered up to the top of the wall beside Theo, who coiled the rope about one arm.

  They ran up the stair wall to the tower’s forebuilding at the crest of the motte. They repeated the exercise where Stephen boosted up Theo to the top of the forebuilding. Theo then dropped the rope so that Stephen could join him.

  There was a doorway into the tower that gave access to the top of the forebuilding, for in the event of an attack it was expected that defenders would rain stones and arrows on any attackers from this vantage point. The door sat in an alcove that provided shelter both from the rain and from view. They crouched in the alcove, breathing hard from the effort to get this far.

  Stephen tried the latch. It rose and the door opened a crack.

  “Not worried about intruders,” Stephen murmured to Theo.

  “This is as far as you go,” Theo whispered. “I won’t risk you blundering about in the dark and waking the watch.”

  “You’re sure?”

  “I don’t need you anymore.” Theo slipped through the door and closed it behind him.

  A long time passed. Stephen kept an ear pressed to the door, alert for the slightest sound, his heart pounding, head spinning in disbelief at w
hat he was up to. Life was supposed to take a certain trajectory; certain events were supposed to happen and certain things were supposed to be done: a younger son either entered the clergy, took up a profession or craft, or sought his fortune at war. Having made that fortune, a fellow was supposed to come home, marry a girl with some property, and settle down to lord it over his manor. None of those things had worked out for Stephen. He had been forced into a profession by a father who disliked him, and, having rebelled against that life, had chosen arms in Spain, where there was constant fighting and quick fortunes were more likely to be made than in England. But he had lost the fortune more swiftly than he had acquired it, and so now here he was, lurking on a castle’s roof, a thief in the night. He would never have imagined this fate for himself.

  Footsteps sounded in the corridor beyond the door, not furtive steps, but a thumping approach that was the exact opposite of stealth. A glimmer of light from a lantern or candle flickered at the foot of the door.

  Stephen’s breath caught in his throat as the steps and voices got closer.

  It was the watch. It had to be, up and about on rounds — in the rain.

  Stephen and Theo had counted on the watch’s usual tendency in peacetime to take shelter from the weather. These fellows were too disciplined.

  Stephen rushed out of the alcove, panic welling at the possibility of discovery. Thieves and burglars were entitled to no more mercy than a murderer or rapist.

  He leaped to the parapet and hung from it by his fingers as the latch rattled, too afraid to let go for fear that the watch would hear him crash to the ground.

  There were two men. One of them strode to the parapet overlooking the stairs. The other stood at the center, hugging his cloak close against drafts, the lantern in his hand.

  “All clear,” announced the fellow at the parapet.

  “Who’d be out on a night like this, anyway?”

  “At least you can tell the captain that we did our bit and it won’t be a lie.”

  “You’re too honest for your own good. I’ll catch my death in this weather.”

  “Least it ain’t winter anymore.”

  “True. I hate winter.”

  “Not my favorite season either.”

  “Makes yer dick shrivel up to a button.”

  “I didn’t know you still had one.”

  The two guards went back in the tower.

  Stephen’s fingers, meanwhile, had begun to fail with the strain. It would be a relief just to let go. But he couldn’t desert Theo. He chinned himself on the parapet, threw a forearm upon the stones, and dragged himself up.

  He returned to his place by the door, ear close, listening through the thunder in case the watch came back.

  Despite Stephen’s close attention to events on the other side of the door, its opening caught him by surprise.

  “Startled you, eh?” Theo said as he slipped out and pulled the door closed behind him.

  “I thought you might be the watch,” Stephen said, his heart hammering. “They came out earlier.”

  “I saw. I was worried they’d spot you.”

  “Did you get them?”

  Theo patted the leather pouch hanging from a thong around his neck. “No trouble at all. Let’s get out of here. We don’t have much time.”

  Theo led Stephen down to the wall encasing the stairs from the tower gate and Stephen acted as Theo’s stepping platform as he had before. A spectacular flash of lightning spread horizontally across the sky, crooked fingers of white flame lashing out from the main bolt. Stephen would have marveled at the sight of it if he hadn’t been so intent on keeping his footing on the slick stone as they scampered down the top of the wall toward the tower gate.

  Stephen was halfway down when a bolt struck so close he thought it had hit right behind him. He was engulfed in searing white light; his hair seemed to stand on end. The impact of the accompanying thunder struck him like the hammer of God. He felt himself suspended in midair, and realized that he had been cast off the wall and was falling. He didn’t know whether he was up or down, head first or feet first. He raised his arms to protect his head just in case, which turned out to be a good thing, because he struck head down. Fortunately, the steep slope of the motte rendered the impact a glancing blow and he tumbled down to the bottom of the ditch.

  He stood up as the alarm bell at the top of the tower began to peel. “Shit,” he said, glancing upward, the pelting rain obscuring his vision.

  Theo said something altogether more harsh as he struggled to his feet and then collapsed.

  “What’s the matter?” Stephen asked.

  “I think I’ve twisted my ankle.”

  Stephen pulled him up on one leg. “Can you walk?”

  Theo tried to put weight on the injured leg. “No.” He handed Stephen the pouch with the dies. “Get going, while you still can.”

  “No,” Stephen said. He crouched, pulled Theo over his shoulder, and clambered out of the ditch, certain that at any moment a voice would call out to bring attention to them.

  Instead, the voice at the top of the tower called out a different message over the ringing of the bell: “Fire! Fire!”

  People had begun to spill out of the halls by the time Stephen reached its stairway. It would have drawn attention and perhaps questions if Theo remained on his shoulder, so Stephen put him down and supported him so he would not fall over. The crowd streamed toward the tower and its gate, which one of the watch pushed open, drawn by the yellow light glowing behind the tower’s battlements.

  Stephen and Theo limped toward the barn, as the towers and sleeping quarters emptied themselves of their inhabitants who raced toward the motte and the tower as well. No one paid Stephen or Theo any mind.

  At last, they were in the barn and out of view. “Wait a moment, will you?” Theo asked. He climbed the ladder to the loft. There was the rustling of clothing, then a satchel plopped to the ground at Stephen’s feet. “Take that to the missus, if you don’t mind.”

  Stephen picked up the satchel. It held Theo’s wet clothes. Stephen turned toward the door, where the yellow light of the fire had grown bright. “I wouldn’t mind if it burned to the ground.”

  “Neither would I. Especially since I set it.”

  Chapter 16

  Stephen watched the flames leap high above the parapets, a great torch that must have been visible for miles, with others from his sleeping quarters who had turned out in the wet to witness the spectacle. None of them made any effort to join the bucket brigade that had formed in an effort to fight the fire. That would have been manual labor. In any case, there were more than enough hands for the task, since the gate wards had thrown open the main gate and admitted the fire watch of the surrounding neighborhoods, who had flooded in at the alarm in such numbers that the motte and surrounding ground had seemed covered with ants.

  The fire guttered out by morning, although a thick column of smoke continued to rise from the burned out shell.

  Stephen, who had been up all night along with most everyone in the castle, collected his horse and rode away.

  The streets about the castle were clogged with people who either had watched the disaster throughout the night or had collected in the morning for a view of the smoke-belching tower and to hear the gossip that circulated from every lip that emerged from the castle. Stephen was pelted with questions as he rode through the press, but he clutched the folds of his cloak about himself and said nothing except for the occasional, “Make way!”

  The crowd thinned out at Hungreye Street, where there was some semblance of a normal workday, shops opening for business and cart and foot traffic beginning to increase as people headed toward the market that began by Saint Peter’s Church, where merchants were setting up stalls and the congestion increased again. On any other day, it would have been a pleasure to meander through the stalls. A market day, especially in such a large town like Hereford, could almost be like a fair, with so many odd things for sale. But Stephen was preoccupied with
his troubles as the mare plodded through the crowd on the way to Wydemarsh Street and the inn where he had left Harry.

  He was so deep in his thoughts, playing over one way to deal with the kidnappers and then another, that he almost missed the sight of Will Thumper. He had not expected to see the Thumpers here, so far from Ludlow. He urged the mare closer to the Thumpers’ stall. All sorts of odds and ends lay upon the table: a bolt of woolen cloth, pots and pans, knives and axes, wooden spoons and bowls, molds for baking cakes, tools for shaping wood, pliers that might have once belonged to a blacksmith, various hammers and drills, assorted spearheads and a small box of hunting points, a stack of blankets, folded linen sheets, an assortment of woolen stockings, and a pile of floppy hats. It was the sort of thing you often saw in a peddler’s cart.

  “Would you mind not blocking the way?” Will Thumper asked. “Keeps the paying customers away.”

  “What have you got there, Will?” Stephen asked, chewing on the last of the sweet bun.

  “Stuff for sale! What does it look like? You don’t have any objection to a fellow trying to make a penny, do you?”

  “You know I don’t. I just like it to be an honest penny.”

  “Come now, Sir Steve, you know I’m an honest man.”

  “That’s true on some days. I heard you frequented the markets in other towns. Junk seller, or so they say, but that stuff doesn’t look like junk.” Stephen dismounted and fingered the roll of woolen cloth died a bright red, which was very expensive. “Where did you get this?”

  “I bought it fair,” Thumper said.

  “Perhaps. And what of this?” Stephen picked up a heavy chain from which hung a heavy metal cross. It was hard to tell if it was made of gold or bronze. “I’ve seen the like around Felicitas Bartelot’s neck every day I pass her house. Did you know her cross has gone missing?”

  “Er, no, I didn’t.”

  “Where’d you get this one?”

  “Off a peddler.”

  “What peddler? Do you recall his name?”

  “No, I don’t. See him now and then. He stopped by the house for some drink and traded this bauble for it.”