by Jason Vail
“At the castle. Not here.”
“But the people who live here are involved.”
The tinsmith drew a deep breath and let it gust out. “Yes.”
“Of course they were,” Gilbert said from behind. “How involved?”
“Henry is a castle guard,” the tinsmith said. “He does the constable’s bidding.”
“How is it that a castle ward enjoys the use of a house like this?” Stephen asked.
“I don’t know,” the tinsmith said. “The constable must like him, I suppose. He is useful at getting people to pay their rents, I’ll say that for him. All he has to do is show up at their doorstep, and most people pour the contents of their purses on the ground. Please don’t say to anyone that I spoke ill of him. He has a bad temper.”
“Is Henry home now?” Stephen asked, even though he already knew the answer to that.
“He’d be at the castle now, wouldn’t he? Or out and about on some chore for the constable,” the tinsmith said.
“I’ll speak to his wife, then.”
“The family isn’t home.”
“Where are they?”
“I don’t know. They left in a bit of a hurry.”
“Like Nigel FitzSimmons and all the folk at the castle who were involving in minting money?”
The tinsmith hesitated. “Yes.”
“Do you know where they went?”
“No. They didn’t say. Somewhere into England, is what I heard. It is a secret, or so I was told.”
“Secrets are notoriously hard to keep.”
“People are keeping that one. So far, anyway. Pico said he’d have the head off anyone who spoke out.” The tinsmith glanced up and down Market Street. “Are you done? I’ve work to do.”
“Did they leave any servants behind?” Stephen asked.
“Did who leave servants behind?”
“Henry and his family when they left.”
“I didn’t say Henry left with his family.”
“But you did say the family left.”
“Well, yes. I did say that. And no. There are no servants. There’s only —” The tinsmith stopped short and clamped his lips together.
“There’s only, who?” Stephen pressed.
“Only the grannie. She’s old and frail and was not up to the journey.”
Stephen pushed by the tinsmith into the hallway that ran by the shop into the depths of the house. “I’ll speak to grannie, then.”
“Please, sir. Don’t make trouble! Go away before anyone sees you!”
Stephen grasped the little man by the collar and drew him close. “Fetch grannie, or I’ll have your head off.”
“That would create such a mess,” Gilbert said. “I’m sure your wife wouldn’t want that.”
“All right! All right!” the tinsmith fairly shouted. He retreated into the house.
Stephen followed him to the hall, suspecting he might slip out the back or a side door. But the tinsmith got as far as a bent figure in a chair by the central hearth without making a break for it.
“Grannie,” the tinsmith said, “you’ve a visitor.”
“I heard the racket,” the old woman said. “You woke me up. Do you always have to shout?”
“I wasn’t shouting.”
“You were! I know shouting when I hear it! I may be feeble, but I’m not deaf. What do they want?”
“The fat fellow whom Henry put in the cellar. He’s come back.”
“What? Does he need accommodations again?”
“No, I don’t think so. They’re asking about the . . . you know what.”
“Oh, dear. This is a pickle. I knew that business would be more trouble than it’s worth. I told Henry not to get involved. But that fool boy never listens.” The old woman squinted at the tinsmith. “Who is the ‘they’ you speak of, Lutelheed?”
“Them.” Lutelheed pointed to Stephen and Gilbert, who had remained at the entrance but now advanced across the hall.
The old woman looked Stephen up and down, gauging his social status at a glance. “Pardon me, sir, if I do not get up. I am infirm.”
“I see that,” Stephen said. There were two canes leaning against the arm of her chair.
“Lutelheed has no manners. He should have asked your name — you can go, by the way, Lutelheed. I shall take care of things myself from here on.”
“Of course.” Lutelheed hesitated as if he wanted to hear more despite this direct order, but under the old woman’s formidable gaze, he retreated to the entrance and shut the door.
“There!” the old woman said. “Now we can talk. You are?”
“Stephen Attebrook. This is my friend and colleague, Gilbert Wistwode.”
“I know this Wistwode, by sight if nothing else. And I have heard of you. I am not surprised that you turned up. Where is Henry?” When Stephen did not respond, the old woman said, “He’s dead, isn’t he.”
“I am afraid so.”
“Did you kill him?”
“Not directly, no.”
“But you had a hand in it.”
“Kidnapping is a rough business. Anyone involved in it cannot expect gentle handling.”
The old woman sighed. “I know that. I am not surprised to hear this. I warned him against it, in fact. But he was always eager for the main chance. If it wasn’t one scheme it was another.”
“Was he your son?”
“Grandson. So now why have you come? You have your prize back.” She flicked a finger at Gilbert. “I don’t know how you put up with him. Always complaining about the food.”
“I think you know. This business you mentioned.”
“Of course.” But instead of going on, the old woman’s lips clamped shut.
When she did not go on, Stephen said, “At first I thought it was Henry’s plot. But I have since learned there seems to be more to it than that.”
Again, the old woman did not speak. She stared into the fire. At last she said, “It is not for me to talk about it. They are ruthless, those people.”
“You mean Nigel FitzSimmons.”
She waved a hand before her face, the same motion as swiping at a bothersome fly. “Him, the people around him. They’ll be back eventually. And when they are, they’ll settle with anyone who’s crossed them. Even little old women like me are not safe from them.” She motioned toward the door. “No doubt Lutelheed is listening. He wouldn’t mind a reward for betraying my betrayal.”
“Would it be a betrayal? They are against the King.”
“FitzSimmons is a friend of the lord of this place. Of course it would be a betrayal.”
While they had been speaking, Gilbert crept toward the door to the shop. He opened it, closed it and turned around. “Master Lutelheed has returned to work.”
“Has he? How out of character,” the old woman said.
“You can speak then without being overheard,” Stephen said. “If you’ve a mind to.”
She smiled. “You’ll not bring out the thumbscrew?”
“I left it at home. Sorry.”
“Well, the two of you could beat it out of me, I suppose.”
“You look like a match for both of us.”
The old woman chuckled. “That would have been true fifty years ago. I’ll tell you what I know, on condition.”
“Which is?”
“Tell me where you left Henry, so I can have him fetched and buried proper.”
“All right.” Stephen described the spot of the ambush.
The old woman nodded, as if gathering her thoughts. “It is a close held secret, this thing of theirs. And unlike most secrets it was kept. But Henry did overhear things while he was up at the castle. Bits and pieces here and there. If one put them together and thought about them, one could get a picture.”
“And you did?”
“Of course I did. I’m no dolt, unlike most people in this town. They are so frightened of the castle folk that they prefer to look away and pretend that nothing is happening.”
“
Go on.”
“Even as I think about it now, it takes my breath away with its audacity.”
“You have piqued my interest.”
“I am not the one who did that.” The old woman rubbed her thighs. “War is coming. They are planning for it. They are minting money for the war. I understand that armies are expensive. Montfort needs an army. This is how they propose to pay for it.”
“I thought that might be it. Where have they gone?”
“I don’t know. That piece of information was not shared with me when my grandson and his family left in such haste.”
“Your grandson?”
“I have a full dozen. It’s hard sometimes to keep them all straight. Two live, or lived, here, with their families.” The old woman clapped her hands. “There you have it! That’s all I know. Precious little, isn’t it? You could have figured it out for yourself, as you are well acquainted with Sir Nigel, or so I was told.” She laughed at having got what she wanted at so cheap a price.
“There is one thing that puzzles me,” Gilbert said as the pair trod slowly down High Street toward the encampment on account of Stephen’s bad foot, which had begun to ache again and caused him to limp. “Why would FitzSimmons mint bad money? We found quite a lot of it. You don’t want to pay soldiers with bad money. They’d rebel.”
“I was wondering the same thing,” Stephen said.
“No, you weren’t. I got there first.”
“You only spoke first and in haste. I was waiting for evidence to support my suspicions.” Stephen picked up the pace. “Come on, supper might be ready by now. If you’re as hungry as I am, we could eat a horse between us.”
Chapter 25
Supper was not quite ready when they got back to camp, but nearly so, vapors rising from the cooking pots and fragrant smells wafting across the grass.
Stephen sat on a camp stool, his conscience at war with itself. There were so many interests and concerns each pulling in its own direction that he thought he might fly apart. Most of the time, his conscience kept to itself so the experience was novel and unwelcome.
A servant poured wine into Walter Henle’s wine cup a few steps away before another tent. I should let it lie, Stephen thought. That was the sensible and prudent thing. But by themselves his legs forced him up and across the gap.
“Where are you going?” Gilbert asked in surprise, for one of the cooks began calling that supper was ready.
“I won’t be a moment.”
“This can’t be good,” Gilbert said as he put down his wooden bowl and followed Stephen.
Henle regarded Stephen and Gilbert over the rim of his wine cup. He swirled the cup and motioned for his servant to refill it.
“You expect me to believe that some old woman in the town knows what FitzSimmons is up to?” Henle asked when Stephen finished giving his brief report of what he and Gilbert had learned. “Some crone on the street?”
“She was in a position to hear things,” Stephen said.
“Rumors and innuendo,” Henle snorted. “Guess work, gossip, nothing more.”
“I don’t think so. I think her news is reliable.”
“Whatever it is, it isn’t much.” Henle’s teeth ground together. “What do you expect me to do with this intelligence, if we can even call it that?”
“Report it to the sheriff. He’ll want to know. The King and his advisors will want to know.”
“FitzAllan,” Henle muttered. “He’ll put no more stock in this gossip than I do.” He wagged a finger at Stephen. “No, I’ll not stake my reputation on this. I’ve my position to think of.”
“Of course you do,” Gilbert was heard to say.
“What was that?” Henle asked.
“Nothing, my lord,” Gilbert added hastily. He tugged at Stephen’s sleeve. “Let’s leave his lordship to his wine. Our supper is getting cold, if there’s even any left for us.”
“By your leave, sir,” Stephen said.
“Go,” Henle said.
Stephen turned away, Gilbert at his side.
“I thought you were afraid that FitzSimmons will be caught,” Gilbert said.
“I am. But I think the King would like to know that his enemies are preparing to move against him, and soon, if I read the signs correctly — no matter the cost to me and to — ” He broke off.
“To whom?”
“Margaret’s involved in this.”
“I knew she had to be. She seems to be everywhere, her finger in every pie. You saw her again? Here?”
Stephen nodded. “I owe her a debt which I am afraid I will not be able to repay.”
“Well, I don’t think you owe that woman anything. She’s using you, like she uses everyone.”
A rebuke came to Stephen’s lips, for Margaret’s less appealing qualities were balanced by others that Gilbert had not seen or did not sufficiently appreciate, but he suppressed it. Gilbert was right in the main, of course, although Stephen didn’t like to hear it.
“That may be,” Stephen said. “One betrayal deserves another, I suppose.”
Chapter 26
The gossips of Ludlow had moved on from counterfeiters and unfathomable plots by the time Henle’s party returned from Bishop’s Castle to the more titillating news that the marriage of Adele Wattepas to Sir Maurice Crauford had been postponed, cancelled some said while others maintained that it had merely been put off. The argument raged.
“I for one am glad to hear it,” Edith said as the Wistwode family gathered about the fire at the end of the day, their work done, taking the weight off their exhausted feet before retiring for the night. “That woman has been scheming to climb back into the gentry since I first knew her.”
“You should not be so unkind, my dear,” Gilbert said staring into the fire.
“Well, it’s the truth!” Edith said.
“Yet doesn’t Adele have a right to some happiness?”
“That marriage isn’t about Adele’s happiness, although I don’t doubt she would be happy enough to climb out of her pit of mediocrity.”
“That we inhabit,” Gilbert finished for her.
“I am quite happy where I am in the pit, and you should be too.”
“I am happy because I have you, my dear.”
Edith smiled. “And you should be.”
“I wonder what brought it about,” Stephen said who was as prone to indulge in gossip as anyone although he would not have admitted it.
“Well,” Jennie Wistwode said, “I heard that Crauford has fallen ill.”
“It must be serious to put off the wedding,” Edith said. “I’ve no love for that man, but I wouldn’t wish illness on anyone.”
“You are delighted at Lucy’s unhappiness, though,” Gilbert said.
“I am weary of her pretentions,” Edith replied, “and her insistence that she is better than everyone else, when we are all in the same boat.”
“You’re going tomorrow?” Gilbert asked Stephen to change the subject.
“Yes,” Stephen said. “It’s time to get Harry back. Ludlow is out of sorts without him around.”
“You’re sure you couldn’t leave him there?” Edith asked, throwing a surreptitious glance at Jennie. “After all, he’s with family now. As he should be.”
“I’ll ask him if he wants to stay,” Stephen said. “But I would be prepared for bad news.”
“I am sick of bad news,” Edith said. “Wars, disease, people dying — it would be good to hear something good for a change. You know, this business with Adele Wattepas has got me thinking. Perhaps it’s time we found a husband for Jennie.”
“Don’t you think it’s too soon, Mama?” Jennie asked with some alarm. “I’m still only sixteen. There’s time yet.”
“No,” Edith declared. “There’s not. People will be calling you a spinster before long. Can’t have that. We need to get you properly settled.”
“I don’t want to be properly settled.”
“My dear, you have no say in the matter. You’ll do what yo
u’re told and that’s that. Isn’t it, Gilbert?”
“As you say, my love.”
Edith came in from the street, not a place she could normally be found first thing in the morning, spotted the groom Mark tarrying over his breakfast as he was known to do in order to put off work as long as possible, and called, “Mark! You’re needed outside!”
“Now, mistress?” Mark answered, perplexed that duty could call him into the street rather than his usual haunt in the yard and stable.
“This very minute!” Edith declared. She turned and marched back out to Bell Lane.
When the door opened for her, Stephen heard over the murmur of guests in the hall enjoying their repast of yesterday’s bread and cheese, some with a few strips of bacon, the sound of a woman sobbing. Sobbing women in the street were unusual enough to spark his curiosity, foreboding and a pang of guilt at something important left undone, since he had a hunch what it might mean. So he followed Mark out the door.
A pile of household belongs lay outside the door to Mistress Bartelot’s house: dismantled bedsteads, rolled mattresses and bedding, several benches and stools, cooking pots and a box of spoons, knives and other utensils. Burly working men were going into and out of the house adding to the pile, which was not large in any case. Mistress Bartelot stood beside the pile, clutching her heavy bronze cross. She was the woman sobbing. Dungon, her housekeeper, was dividing the big pile into a smaller one.
“Take Mistress Bartelot’s things to the shed,” Edith ordered Mark, gesturing back toward the yard of the Broken Shield.
A one-horse cart came round the corner from Broad Street and approached them.
“Ah, Gerald,” Dungon said to the young man leading the horse. “These are my things.”
“Right, mum,” Gerald said. He started loading the contents of the smaller pile onto the cart while Mark retreated to the yard to fetch the handcart.
Edith patted Mistress Bartelot on the shoulder. “We’ll find room for you, Felicitas, until you can make other arrangements.”
Mistress Bartelot nodded.
“I’m sorry,” Stephen said. It was the usual thing one said in such circumstances, and utterly inadequate.