Bad Money (A Stephen Attebrook mystery Book 6)

by Jason Vail

  “How are you doing?” Stephen asked Gilbert, who by a miracle had not fallen off.

  “Not well! Not well at all! Are we going to keep up that pace?”

  “Only when they catch up with us.”

  “Oh, dear! You think they will?”

  “I would not be surprised.”

  “I do not like this. Should we turn off to avoid them?” Gilbert waved at the forests on either side of the road.

  “Our best bet is to get to Clun as quickly as possible.”

  “I do not like that plan. We are not well liked in Clun.”

  “But we are on the King’s business. They will not interfere with us.”

  “You are more trusting than I.”

  “If they have dogs, the forest will not protect us. I can tie you to the saddle as I did for Harry, if you like.”

  “No, that will not be necessary. I cannot bear the thought of being treated like Harry.”

  “I’ll not tell.”

  “Oh, yes you will. It will slip out in some unguarded moment, and then I’ll be a laughingstock.”

  “Aren’t you already that to some people?”

  “Perhaps. But let’s not make my lot any worse than it already is.”

  Stephen asked for a trot — a slow one because the trot was the most punishing of the gaits, and merely sitting upon a horse was torment enough for Gilbert. Anything faster either risked pitching him to the ground or provoking another volley of complaints. As it was, Gilbert endured the jolting silently. so that Stephen could listen for the sounds of pursuit. The night was quiet and peaceful beneath the harsh moonlight, the road a silver ribbon stretching ahead.

  A mile passed and then another in tranquil quiet, and Stephen began to think that FitzSimmons wasn’t coming after all. But then he heard the sound of horses approaching fast on the road behind him, round a bend.

  “Back to work,” Stephen murmured to the mare as he asked her to a slow canter.

  The pursuit came into view within moments. A shout told Stephen that he had been seen. The pursuit urged their horses to greater speed.

  Stephen asked for a gallop, as much speed as he could get out of her.

  “Oh, God in Heaven, help me!” Gilbert shouted as his horse burst forward to keep up.

  Stephen looked over his shoulder at Gilbert, who had dropped his reins and was clutching the saddle pommel. “Stand in the stirrups!” Stephen called. “It’s easier that way! And get those reins back!”

  “Who knew that riding a mere horse could involve so much trouble,” Gilbert said as he fumbled to regain the reins.

  The horses ran flat out for at least a mile along a road that rose and fell over gentle hills, but gradually the hill climbs took their toll and the chasers began to tire and fall behind. When Stephen noticed this, he slowed the mare so that she would have something in her if needed. He didn’t need to pull away and lose FitzSimmons, he just had to stay ahead and reach Clun first — in fact, it was surprising that FitzSimmons had come this far, for they were now well into the Honor of Clun and the lands of Percival FitzAllan.

  Finally, the enemy’s horses blew out and the pursuit collapsed to a walk. Stephen slowed to a walk as well, careful to leave at least a hundred yards separating them in case FitzSimmons brought along a crossbowman. Stephen kept an eye on them over his shoulder — there were six that he could see. If they stopped that would be a sure sign they had a crossbowman, who could not shoot accurately from the back of a moving horse, but might risk a shot while halted even at this extreme range.

  After a quarter of an hour, Stephen judged that the mare had recovered enough, and he picked up a trot. They rounded a bend on the road, which he remembered from his previous visit to Clun. He had climbed the wooded hill to the left and ridden over it to come at the time from the east. They were was only a mile away. When the bend concealed them from the pursuit, he broke into an easy canter. He felt safe now. The horses could cover the last mile at a gallop if need be and there was nothing FitzSimmons could do.

  The rise of the road around the shoulder of the hill ended and the road descended toward the town, invisible in the distance except for a pall of smoke hanging ahead between two hills.

  Stephen heard the pursuers galloping behind as they’d speeded up when he disappeared. He urged the mare faster, confident that the pursuit would break off when they realized the town was near.

  The town announced its presence by the appearance of rows of houses on either side of the road leading to the castle gate on the northwest corner of the walled part of Clun. A few were only timber frames, not yet completed, since all the houses here — as well as in the town — had been burned by the Welsh during the attack last autumn.

  The castle, the walled upper bailey visible over the rooftops, lay apart from the town to the west at a bend of the river. Stephen dipped into the town ditch and urged the mare on the last few yards to the castle gate, certain that he was out of danger.

  It was an unusual castle in that it had three baileys, each upon its own motte and apart from the others, surrounded by its own wall and connected by wooden bridges. The lower two had been walled with timber, which had burned in the attack. The palisades on the lower baileys had been rebuilt, but hastily, without towers of any kind. The gate was protected only by a walk above it.

  There was no guard on the wall even though the March was still in turmoil, with raids by the Welsh being launched without respite. No one knew where a Welsh army would pop up next. Only last month a second attack on Clun had been blunted in a battle just west of Newcastle no more than three miles off, with heavy losses on the part of the Welsh.

  Without dismounting, Stephen banged on the gate with the pommel of his sword and called out, “Hello! Hello! Open the gate in the King’s name!”

  But no one answered or showed himself above.

  He thought he heard noises within, but those sounds diminished in importance because there was a new one from his rear: horses coming up. He glanced back and saw three horsemen clamber out of the town ditch.

  “At him!” FitzSimmons snarled, and they charged, swords drawn and pointed.

  Stephen sat stunned, disbelieving that FitzSimmons would pursue him to the gates of Clun, which was enemy territory to him and as unsafe as any place could be, since FitzAllan was an ardent a supporter of the king.

  His mare was a peculiar mount. She had been a cow pony in central Spain before he bought her, and she knew what to do when charged almost without being asked: only slight leg pressure on her left side behind the girth sent her dancing sideways at the moment when the attackers reached striking distance. She danced a canter in a semicircle, bringing Stephen to the unprotected left side of the man on the far left, and Stephen cut him down with a swipe of his sword, a wound that severed the man’s spine.

  FitzSimmons and the other attacker yanked their horses about, while Stephen applied his right leg so that the mare now danced to the left in order to keep the attackers on the right where he could use his sword to defend as well as attack.

  FitzSimmons’ companion delivered a frightful blow at Stephen’s head, rising up on the stirrups to give as much force as he could to it. Stephen parried in the left hanging guard and cut at the man’s thigh. The sword went through his leg and stuck for a moment in the leather panel of the saddle before the mare’s dancing carried Stephen away and dislodged it. The companion, his leg attached by a thread of flesh, sagged over his horse’s head as it trotted away.

  Stephen thought that deprived of his support FitzSimmons would break off, but he was wrong. FitzSimmons attacked furiously, and the horses circled each other, each man trying to get to the other’s back or left side, exchanging and defending blows one after another in quick succession, the ting! of clashing swords filling the air with the music of death.

  Stephen marveled at the agility and responsiveness of the mare. He had exercised her in this way now and then in the paddock, but had never considered her for this deadly work, yet it was as if she
directed the battle rather than him — needing only leg pressure and shifts in his seat rather than reins to guide her.

  It was hard to tell how long this went on. It seemed like forever but could have only been a minute or two. Then the three missing companions emerged from the ditch, their delay probably from the fact they rode lesser horses which could not keep up.

  Stephen saw the arrivals out of the corner of his eye. Dismay and a realization that this was his end filled his mind. He could barely stand up to FitzSimmons, let alone four at once, and with all so close he could not run — he would be cut down right away if he tried.

  “Belay that now!” a voice called from above their heads. “Or I’ll fill you all full of shot!” There were five men on the wall above them glaring down over drawn crossbows.

  Stephen and FitzSimmons drew apart and the newly arrived companions halted beside their leader.

  “What’s going on here?” the voice demanded.

  Stephen pointed his sword at FitzSimmons. “They are enemies of the King. I bring word of their misdeeds, and they would kill me to silence my message.”

  “Who are you?” the voice asked.

  “Stephen Attebrook, deputy coroner of Ludlow.”

  “You don’t say. And who are they?”

  “Nigel FitzSimmons, follower and servant of Simon de Montfort. The others I do not know. But they are with him.”

  “Is this true?” the voice demanded of FitzSimmons.

  In answer, FitzSimmons wheeled his horse and rode into the town ditch. In a moment he and the others were out of sight.

  “Well, I suppose it is,” the voice said. “You! Throw down that sword and get off the horse. I’ll not open this gate until you do.”

  Stephen dropped his sword and dismounted. The gate swung open. Three armed men emerged, one carrying a lighted lantern. The man with the lantern held it close to Stephen’s face.

  “You’re Attebrook, all right,” said the man who had called down from the wall. “I remember you from your last visit. Lord Percival will be glad to get his hands on you. Hold him tight, boys. We’ll be certain he doesn’t slip away again.”

  Stephen looked about, expecting Gilbert to be ordered off his horse as well. But there was no sign of the clerk.

  Chapter 23

  Stephen was a prestigious enough guest to bring out the castle’s constable, Richard de Dageworth, to see to his welfare.

  “This is him, eh?” Dageworth asked the guards, peering closely at Stephen in the flickering candlelight, for during Stephen’s last visit they had not met.

  “It’s him, sir,” one of the guards replied, giving Stephen a shove.

  “Lord Percival will be glad to get his hands on you after all the trouble you’ve caused,” Dageworth said. “For my part, I was a friend of Warin Pentre’s and I’ll not soon forgive you for his death. I’ll be there when you pay for it.”

  “It wasn’t my doing,” Stephen said. “Blame for that lies elsewhere.” This was not exactly truthful. He had played a role in the attack on Pentre’s castle at Bucknell, just not a direct one. However, what he had done was damning enough if the full truth ever got out.

  “So you say. But a murderer’s words cannot be believed. Put him in hold.”

  “Whatever your grievances, you are commanded not to interfere with me,” Stephen said as the guards grasped arms and one took up the chain which still dangled from his neck. “I am on crown business of the most urgent sort.”

  “I doubt that, traitor,” Dageworth said.

  “I’ve uncovered a ring of counterfeiters of the king’s money. Report that, at least, when you tell FitzAllan of my capture. He’ll want to know about it.”

  “I might.”

  It seemed that those rebuilding the lower baileys had not yet got around to providing for a gaol, although some thoughtful person had arranged for the erection of a set of stocks in the yard of the middle bailey. The guards led Stephen to the stocks. Stephen wished now for his post at the barn of Bishop’s Castle, for he could at least sit down there. Here he had to stand up. It would be a long, sleepless night.

  “You’ll be comfortable here, I’m sure,” Dageworth said with relish before he turned away.

  A messenger set out for Hereford at dawn to inform Earl Percival of Stephen’s capture. Stephen wished the messenger a swift and safe journey, for he had not got a wink of sleep during the night, and the prospects for any were dim.

  Shortly after the messenger’s departure, the castle’s children were let out of doors by their mothers, and it wasn’t long before they spotted Stephen. The children gathered round and amused themselves for some time by hurling insults and pelting him with cow and horse shit before the mothers intervened and put them to their chores.

  Breakfast came shortly thereafter, evidenced by the disappearance of everyone into the bailey’s timber hall by the gate to the upper bailey. The hall’s windows were open and Stephen watched the activity with some envy because no one had given any thought to his breakfast, except for one of the castle wards who plucked off a piece of fresh horseshit which had clung to Stephen’s cheek and pressed it to Stephen’s mouth before walking on to a more tasty meal. “Needs salt!” Stephen said to the man’s back as he spit out the bits that got in his mouth.

  The morning wore on without incident apart from one boy who flung a stone at Stephen’s head. Fortunately, the aim was off and the stone succeeded in only nicking one of Stephen’s hands.

  About noon, when dinner had concluded, a young woman crossed from the kitchen with a clay jug and something wrapped in a cloth. The cross expression on her face suggested that she did not like the chore she had been given. Yet she let Stephen drink from the jug, spilling a good bit of the water it contained, not very concerned whether he got any of it. The object wrapped in the cloth proved to be a butt of moldy bread, which she delighted in forcing into his mouth. Not being particular about the condition of his bread — glad in fact that there was any — Stephen chewed the hard crusts that made it past his lips. Some fell to the ground. At first, he thought the woman might feed him that too, dirt and all, but she flung the scraps into the pigsty and departed. The commotion among the pigs indicated that they enjoyed the treat more than Stephen had done.

  The afternoon, full of the misery of aching feet and back, chafing neck, cramps in the shoulders, and a desperate desire for sleep, dragged on far longer than it had any right to do. Supper arrived for the servants in the middle bailey, but no one stooped to feed the prisoner.

  Then there was the interminable wait for nightfall, any hope of being released to take his ease upon the cold, hard ground dashed as castle folk gathered for some singing and dancing in the hall before the candles were blown out at last and everyone retired for a night that grew increasingly chilly, despite the fact that spring was supposed to be underway. Clouds crept across the stars and a wind arose, carrying the scent of rain.

  With the departure of the day, Stephen lost track of time. He surprised himself by being able to doze off standing up and leaning his weight upon the stocks, a discovery for which he was grateful even if the sleep he obtained was not very refreshing.

  Sometime well into the night a commotion in the lower bailey awakened him: voices shouting, muffled by distance. The gate to the middle bailey creaked as it opened. At least ten riders trotted through the wooden gatehouse and headed up the bridge to the upper bailey, where the constable and his officers made their residence.

  Hours seemingly went by. Then figures emerged from the dark and stood before Stephen.

  “What’s that God awful smell?” Dageworth demanded. “Have you shat your drawers, man?” He laughed and the men accompanying him laughed with him.

  “What do you want? You’re interrupting my sleep.”

  Dageworth did not reply. He said to the men behind him, “Unlock him, and get him cleaned up before you bring him into the hall. I’ll not expose the ladies to that filth.”

  It took the support of a man on either arm
to help Stephen reach the stone hall in the upper bailey. The escorts stripped him of his clothing at the foot of the steps, doused him with buckets of freezing well water, then forced him to wash with soap before they gave him a change of fresh clothes. To be fair, Stephen was glad for the soap and the clothing, although he wished for warmer water, since it took some time before he was able to stop shivering. This sharp discomfort was the reason few people took regular baths.

  Dageworth was still up when Stephen entered the hall, a candle burning on the high table at his elbow, his deputy at his side. Stephen made out several feminine faces peering at him round the corner of a stair.

  “Those riders came from the earl?” Stephen asked.

  Dageworth shook his head. “No, they are from Walter Henle in Ludlow. I am ordered to turn you over to them. I am disappointed.”

  “You poor fellow.”

  Dageworth drummed on the table. “I would appreciate it if you do not speak of your reception here when you see the earl.”

  “We’ll talk about that after I’ve had a night’s sleep. Where is my bed, anyway?”

  “That way.” Dageworth gestured toward the stairs as the women, who had been watching there, ducked out of sight.

  Chapter 24

  Stephen reached Ludlow late in the afternoon, having got a late start from Clun. Stephen would have liked nothing better than to creep off to the Broken Shield and his garret room, for he had not recovered from the rough handling he received during the preceding days, but his escort insisted that they proceed directly to the castle.

  He surrendered his sword to a servant at the doorway to the hall and entered the vast chamber. As was often the case when a high functionary was in residence, the hall was filled with people: various petitioners seeking favors, hangers on and lesser officials, with servants hurrying about seeing to their needs while the visitors loitered around waiting to be noticed or to be called upon.