The brothers stood and walked toward the fire, Big Tod stretching himself to his full height. They nodded to the little constable when he entered. The innkeeper looked into the room and called out for the order.
Matthew said, "How soon will you be leaving us?"
"Sir Henry and his lady leave Friday for London. There is nothing for us here."
"You will travel to London with them?" Matthew asked.
"For that you must ask our chief," Big Tod replied. "I know not his plans, nor do I have any for myself."
When the innkeeper returned with the ale, Matthew took it firmly in hand and drank deep to warm his bones. Finding the strap had given him confidence, as disturbing as this evidence was. These two men, he thought, might be outlanders, and yet they were much like the folk he knew in Chelmsford and who knew him. "Would you mind if I joined you at your table for a bit?"
Big Tod motioned the constable to their table by the window. The table was narrow and their glasses nearly touched at its center.
"You have been many times to the Hall?"
"Twice," Big Tod replied laconically, hoisting his glass for a long drink that seemed to imply the sufficiency of his answer.
"Once last night. The other time four days before," Big Tod volunteered.
"Why ask you that?" the younger brother asked suspiciously.
Matthew examined the players shrewdly. "I ask because if I am to resolve Sir Henry's doubts in the boy's death I must know all of his doings. I know that Richard Mull was at the Hall more than twice."
"If 'tis true," Big Tod began, "you have the advantage of me, for he was there four days since, and that to my knowing was his one visit."
Undaunted, Matthew continued. "You know nothing then of any relation the boy may have had with Lady Saltmarsh?"
The question evidently caught the player by surprise. He hesitated before responding. Perhaps the constable was not such a great fool after all. He was tempted now to share what the Welsh girl had told him, but his oath of silence suppressed the inclination.
"I do not know what you mean by relation." He proceeded cautiously. "She was our patron, remains so still, she and her husband. Both favored the boy above the rest of us. I know no more."
He rose to leave, but the constable stayed him with a hand on his arm. "You seem an honest man. I should be much grieved were I to find you otherwise. Are you certain you know no more than you have told?"
"Of myself, I know no more than I have said just now. My brother and I must be about our business."
Big Tod followed his brother from the room into the courtyard, just as Will Shipman was emerging from the stable and making his own way to the inn for breakfast.
"The constable is inside," Big Tod remarked in passing the chief player.
Will Shipman nodded as he stepped into the room. The brothers proceeded to the stable in silence and began to collect their belongings. Big Tod was thinking of the Welsh girl again, but was uncertain as to what to do next.
Matthew had paused at the table until the brothers had gone out into the innyard. Through an open window he could see Will Shipman buttoning his jerkin and making his way to breakfast. The chief player had passed the brothers, nodding to them in greeting. There was little surprise on his face when he entered the inn and saw the constable standing at the bar.
Matthew greeted the chief player cheerfully. He was tempted to question the man again but suddenly thought the better of it. If he could not penetrate the silence of the brothers, he would do little better with Will Shipman. These actors kept close tongues.
He paid for his ale and walked out into the yard. He looked at the sky. There would be rain before nightfall.
He spent the hour's walk from the inn to the Hall fingering the strap in his pocket and munching his breakfast. The cheese was good but the biscuits stale. He could blame only himself; Joan had offered him hot caudle and pudding had he had the patience for it.
Zerubbabel Edwards was tall, muscular, and stood at the present moment working shirtless at the forge, a grumpy, recalcitrant fellow Matthew knew by reputation. When the constable identified himself over the din of anvil and hammer, the groom stared at Matthew suspiciously, and then continued his work, paying the constable no more mind than he would have a traveling tinker selling crocks and wooden spoons.
Matthew tried to get the man's attention again. Finally, the groom stopped. Beads of moisture trickled from his dark face onto his chest. He lowered the hammer and placed it on the anvil.
Matthew showed the groom the strap he had found. Edwards examined it, grunted something under his breath. " 'Tis my master's, indeed. How came you by it?"
"I found it in the road, on my way here," Matthew said, not yet prepared to describe his find as evidence. "You are sure though that it is truly Sir Henry's?"
"He has two saddles so marked. One for his gelding, one for his lady's. I should know well enough, for I care for his horses and their trappings."
"I'll give the piece to Sir Henry myself," Matthew declared reaching for it. But the groom tucked it into his belt.
"No need," he said. "It can be repaired. Sir Henry will not even know it was gone."
The man resumed hammering. Matthew noticed the man's brawny arms and shoulders and decided against pressing his authority, at least for the moment. Dejectedly, he bid the groom good day, not waiting a response from one who now seemed totally absorbed in his task. Matthew emerged from the stable at the exact moment Big Tod stepped from the kitchen of the Hall and stood in the distance talking to the Welsh girl. Matthew paused, watching the pair. Then he saw the actor take the girl in his arms, kiss her, and walk off in the direction of the road.
"I have thought of little but you since last night," Big Tod said.
"Nor I of you," Gwen replied simply.
He led her to the table in the kitchen where they had drunk together. They were alone in the great room with its immense unenclosed hearth and soot-stained rafters.
She leaned toward him and whispered hoarsely. "There was a terrible to-do last night between my master and his lady. When I came to bed I heard them below in their chamber, him screaming and pounding at her door."
"Could you not hear the matter?" he asked.
"Only their raging. My mistress's voice was shrill, angrier than I had before heard it. Sir Henry was drunk blind. Daniel the servingman told me so when he came into the kitchen from quenching the candles in the hall. He told me to be wary of the master, for he was muttering 'gainst women beneath his breath, and since I was surely one, that I might well watch where I stepped that night. Daniel helped the master to his chamber but waited at the door. The quarrel between them began no sooner than the door was shut and went on until much later. I went to bed myself where I sleep up beneath the rafters. After the moon had gone down I heard Sir Henry stumbling on the stairs and thought it might be Mary Dill, the upstairs maid, coming back from her husband's farm. She's fat and her footfall's like unto a man's. But then I heard him snorting, so I knew it was the master himself. He reeked of vomit. I could smell it through the door. I heard him feeling around in the darkness and then he bumped his shins on my bedpost and cursed. I was frightened out of my wits but kept still, hoping that he'd not find me. Then he touched my leg, and I let out a little scream. He grabbed for my throat, so that I could hardly breathe, and told me to keep quiet or I'd scream for the devil anon."
"Sure he is the devil himself," Big Tod interjected angrily.
"He told me that I was a goodly wench, spoke sweetly to me. How I was a wench a lord might wish to keep his bed warm in the winter, but that if I was as quick with my tongue as with my nose that they'd bury me before the first snow."
"Ah, then he did see you the day you interrupted his wife's pleasure?"
"Aye, I think he did, but he did not speak of that. I concluded that it was not my silence about what had happened was his interest but what he was about to do, for he handled me most unmannerly, feeling such parts of me that I am ashamed
to tell of it, and roughly too."
Big Tod's anger mounted. "I've a knife that I'd find a sweet home for in the seat of his lust, the great devil. Did he do you harm?"
"Nay, I'm a virgin still, but not for his want of trying. God, I was most sick with the smell, but he floundered about the bed like a great fish beached. I lay still, corpse-like, which made him angry at first, but I was too busy keeping my own gorge down to feign the passion he desired. Soon he tired of me and lay gasping, then began to snore. I lay quiet as could be and then pushed him to the side and got out of bed as fast as I might."
"And what did you then?"
"I ran as fast to where the menservants sleep, woke Daniel, and told him that the master had stumbled to my bed and asked him to see to him. I waited while Daniel went about the business. When he returned he told me that he had helped Sir Henry to his own chamber below but that my mistress would give him no admittance, though both Sir Henry and Daniel pleaded. So Daniel found a place for Sir Henry in one of the guest chambers. Like enough it suited him, such a state he was in."
"Like enough," Big Tod said stonily.
Gwen continued. "I returned to my own room but could not sleep in a bed so foul. I was more angry than afraid by that time to think that on my pittance I must endure such as this."
Big Tod shook his head sympathetically and reached for her hand.
"But that was not the whole of it," she said. "This morning as I was cleaning up after cook, my mistress came into the kitchen and beckoned me toward the garden. She asked me to tell her of what passed last night, which I truthfully did. I guess she had wheedled from Daniel in whose bed he had found Sir Henry, and she, guessing why, was looking hard into my honesty. Strangely, it took me no trouble to satisfy her of that, but then she put more direct warnings to me touching upon the minding of my own business in the Hall and how I would be treated if I carried tales into the town."
"Did she say aught of the other time?"
"Nay, except that she did talk somewhat shadowily of things I might have seen and must not relate to a living soul. These were Sir Henry's private business, she said, then looked as though she wished me dead. I spoke up and assured her that I could keep silent and knew my place and was a simple maid who wished only to earn her keep in an honest way."
"How did that satisfy her, then?"
"Well, she said no more but turned and went back into the house. So of my situation here now I can say no more."
" 'Tis a dangerous thing when a serving girl must keep silent for her master and his lady, for though she be as discreet as a log, should her master become suspicious it will be small time before evil befalls her."
She shuddered and drew closer to him. He had not meant to alarm her, and yet he knew too much of what men were capable of to overlook these signs of danger. He pressed her hands reassuringly. "Come with me now, child," he said. "The danger grows greater should you stay." '
"But I have not my things," she protested.
"What you need I will provide myself," he said. "Let me return to my chamber for my mother's locket." she said, "which I have concealed beneath my bed. 'Tis precious little I have to remember her by, and she willed it specially to me. I cannot leave it in good conscience."
"Go then and be quick," he said sharply. 'Til wait you beyond the porter's lodge. Tell no one of your leaving and make no fuss. If any ask, say that you have been sent to town on an errand, for thread or some bauble. Carry a basket with you. 'Twill make the tale all the more likely."
She signaled her understanding with a quick nod and then disappeared into the passageway connecting the kitchen with the great hall. He rose and stepped out into the courtyard. Seeing no one, he began to walk quickly toward the lodge.
Varnell followed the Welsh girl up the back staircase to her chamber in the attic and watched while she rummaged through the bed linens, stuffed something—into her bosom, and then turned suddenly to see him standing over her. She gasped; he barred her way from the room with an arm across the door.
"You'll not hurt me?" she asked, her face ashen with fear.
He dropped his arm but did not move from the doorway. "You mistake me," he said. "I mean you no harm, but you must come with me now to Sir Henry."
He took her hand and led her firmly from the room as a parent might lead a disobedient child. Below he waited with her outside the knight's door until they were bidden to enter. He could feel the girl shudder; his own pulse quickened with excitement.
Saltmarsh scowled and let a heavy volume fall to his table with a thud that made her jump. His doublet was now clean and properly secured; he seemed a quite different man from the half-blind drunk who had come staggering into her chamber only a few hours before. The secretary withdrew at his master's command.
When he beckoned her to approach, she stood her ground timorously, then yielded. A lord in his cups, rutting for a maid, was just another drunken man who must be helped to the door or to his own bed. A knight sober was another beast. Though she dreaded both, this she knew was the worse.
"Daniel tells me that you have a loose tongue, girl. Is that true or no?" He spoke evenly, his tone almost casual.
"I know not what you might mean, sir," she replied hesitantly.
"You have told him that I came to your chamber yesternight to have . . . conversation with you, did you not? And I suppose you are now going to the town to relate the same to your gossips?'' He seized her long hair in his fist and pulled it back sharply.
"I would do no such thing," she gasped in pain.
"You should not tell such a thing, for there is no truth in it, is there?"
To her relief, he released her hair and walked toward the window. She began to weep. He commanded, his back to her still, "Cease whimpering and tell me what you told Daniel, word for word."
She hesitated, controlled her tears, and decided to lie. Between sobs, she said, "I told him that you had come to my chamber, mistaking it for your own, and thatThe should come fetch you to see you to your proper bed, Sir Henry."
She waited to see the effect of this invention on the knight, but since she was unable to read the back of his head she could only surmise his reaction and pray that Daniel's more honest, if malicious, account had been vague enough to accommodate her own story.
Evidently it was, for Saltmarsh said nothing but continued to look out the window at the bleak fields. When he turned to her again, his heavy face had regained its usual expressionlessness. "Do you recall exactly what I said to you, word for word when I came to you?"
Now that he faced her, she could read the uncertainty in his eyes. So he was too drunk then to remember and it was her word against Daniel's. Well, she was content to stand her ground. If her master had said or done aught improper, then she could certainly not tell, for the hour was late, herself half asleep. That she could remember him entering her chamber at all was a wonder, much less the details of his discourse or actions.
He suffered her to reason thusly, saying nothing but continuing to scrutinize her with that same emotionless stare. When she was finished, she let her arms fall to her side.
"I deal harshly with servants who speak of what passes in this house out of it. You are a girl here by virtue of my wife's sufferance, not mine. For her sake I shall forgive what seems to have been an error—yours or Daniel's I cannot tell. Let the matter end in this, that though I may at times drink more than moderation allows, I observe the lawjs of God and man when it comes to the women of this house. No maid in my wife's service need fear me." All this he pronounced with such frigid dignity that she could almost have thought herself mistaken in him. She "blushed in spite of herself for shame, curtsied, and at his permission departed the chamber bewildered and frightened.
With the door fast behind her, she hurriedly returned to her own quarters and finished packing her belongings in the basket Big Tod had given her. In her mind's eye she saw him waiting her and wondering at her long delay, and she feared how he might misinterpret it as simple harlotry. Sh
e hoped he might think her done away with instead, and maybe weep for her rather than condemn. From her tiny window she peered down into the courtyard and saw Sir Henry's secretary standing idly by the gate looking up at her. Her heart sank. She was not our of danger yet. She gathered her cloak, first making sure the locket was secure in her bodice. Then she hurried down the passage to the back stairs, wishing to avoid the courtyard and the pasty-face secretary at all cost.
"You are waiting someone?" Matthew Stock said as, breathless but smiling, he caught up with the player at the lodge.
"Aye, the girl at the Hall. She and I have been friendly with one another and are thinking of marrying. That is, if there's none to say us nay."
"You shall find no objector in me, then." the constable returned pleasantly. "But what of Sir Henry?"
"I care not," Big Tod exploded. "She's no slave and may go as she pleases."
"Unless she is pledged or bound," Matthew reminded him.
"She is neither, but a free woman working for a wage."
"Then if such be the case, I wish you both Godspeed."
Matthew turned, as if to go on his way, and then stopped. "I am surprised that your amorous duties should have carried you so abruptly to the Hall following our conversation. Would you mind it Iwaited with you and spoke to the girl myself? She may know more of the doings here than any of us, and may provide useful information about the boy's murder."
The player knew the request admitted no denying. The two men waited together in silence. "The girl delays her coming," the constable said after a quarter of an hour had passed and there was yet no sign of her.
"Women will be ever long about their doings," Big Tod reflected philosophically, attempting to hide his growing unease.
"And that's the truth. But tell me, I wonder that you have persuaded the girl to leave so secure a place to wander England with your troop. I do not deny that you be a proper man, but women are homey folk not soon to leave a well-feathered nest."
"She has no one here," the player responded sullenly. "She longs for a different scene."
The Player's Boy is Dead Page 10