by Jason Vail
The thick green glass on the windows of the guest room emitted an eerie glow, as if he had suddenly fallen under the sea. It was much as he had left it this morning, except the big canopy bed, its posts painted red and blue, had been made.
There was only one place the list could reasonably be. Stephen shut the door and crossed to Margaret’s traveling trunk. It was a huge thing that took two men to lift. These trunks were big because people of her class practically lived out of them, and they often held everything they owned except weapons and dinnerware. He opened the lid, which Margaret had not bothered to lock, a circumstance that caused a pang of doubt. Would she really have left so valuable a thing in an unlocked trunk? Gowns were neatly folded on top. He ran his fingers over the lid to check for secret compartments, then along the inside walls. Nothing. He burrowed down through the mass of clothing, feeling for the cringle of parchment or the waxy coolness of a document case. Still nothing. He began to fret that he had made a serious mistake. She might have hidden it somewhere else in the house.
Then at one corner at the bottom, his fingers met a square leather case, not round as he had been expecting.
He hauled out the case. It was flat and closed with a flap and was unwaxed.
He opened the flap.
There was parchment inside. He drew it partway out — and saw he had found what he was looking for. Baynard’s original list.
He breathed a sigh of relief.
The door opened.
He turned to see who it was.
Margaret stood there.
She stepped in and to the side.
Walter was behind her with a loaded crossbow. He pointed the weapon at Stephen’s navel.
Behind them, Stephen could see that James had Gilbert’s arm twisted behind his back.
“Oh, Stephen,” Margaret said. “I knew you were too smart for your own good. It will be the death of you, if you aren’t careful.” She held out her hand. “I’ll have that. It’s mine now. Come, don’t hesitate. You’re checkmated. I’ve won. You’re not one of those men who hates being bested by a woman, are you?”
When he still hesitated, she added, “I’ll let you make another copy. You can pass that off to Valence.”
Still he hesitated. Margaret was losing her patience. She balled her fists. “Stephen, I’ll have to let Walter shoot. I don’t want to do that. Please!”
There wasn’t anything he could do, really. There was nowhere to run. A step forward or backward and Walter would drill him with a quarrel. The thought of what a quarrel could do at close range made Stephen’s stomach curl. As a boy, he had shot a deer at close range. The quarrel had gone clear through its body and lodged in a tree behind it.
He held out the square leather case.
Margaret reached for it.
Gilbert chose that moment to stamp on James’ foot. James yelped and involuntarily loosened his grip. Gilbert, whom no one would take for a fighting man, drove an elbow into James’ stomach.
Walter glanced back to see what the commotion was about.
Stephen saw his opportunity. He threw Clement’s sword at Walter as if it was a spear. Walter could have shot him down right then, but he chose survival before impalement and stepped out of the way. The sword sailed passed him, through the door, and stuck in the wall on the other side of the hallway, narrowly missing James as he fought with Gilbert.
While Walter dodged the sword, Stephen jumped through the window, shielding his head with the leather case.
He had never jumped through a glass window before and had no idea what to expect. He half thought it might be as hard as a stone wall, and although it wasn’t, it still gave him a terrific thump. The panes were set in a lattice of lead, which held for an agonizing moment, and then showered him with fragments as it gave way.
As he fell, not knowing what lay on the ground below, he sensed rather than saw a crossbow quarrel hiss by his ear.
Pinwheeling his arms, he plunged off balance, not centered over his feet. But this proved to be fortunate, for it forced him to roll with the impact. He climbed to his feet, aching in a multitude of places, aware of warm wetness on his head and an ear, and deeply glad he had not landed on his head.
He collected the round tube and the square case and ran limping to the wall separating the Baynard’s yard from College Lane. It was a high wall, so tall he could barely reach the top even with a leap. But he managed to secure a grip and pulled himself up.
He looked back to see Margaret leaning out of the remains of the window. “Give my regards to your friend Nigel,” he called.
She drew back and Walter replaced her with his crossbow.
Stephen slipped over the wall before Walter could shoot again.
There were people in College Lane — a woman struggling through Linney Gate under a load of hay which she was carrying on her back; a priest entering the grounds of St. Laurence Church; a matron with a gaggle of maids and a groom streaming toward him. They all regarded him in shock as if he was a demon that had just sprung out of the ground. It was his appearance, of course: bloody and without a hat.
Stephen tried to ignore them and act as if nothing was the matter.
Then Gilbert emerged from the front door of Baynard House. He smoothed the collar of his coat in a self-satisfied, merchantly way, and joined Stephen in the street. This seemed to convince the onlookers that something other than criminal activity was afoot, for Gilbert was a respected merchant and not to be suspected of involvement in lawbreaking.
As Stephen limped up College Lane to High Street with Gilbert at his side, he heard the matron cluck, “Men, always fighting. It’s disgraceful — in the middle of the day yet!”
Stephen nodded to her as she passed. “Good morning, mistress,” he said cheerfully.
“Good morning,” she said stiffly, embarrassed that he had spoken her and that she had to answer him in return.
“She’s right, you know,” Gilbert said. “You are a disgrace.” He took out a handkerchief and tried to wipe off some of the blood. “Well, I don’t think that did much good. You’ll have to wait until we get home.”
The middle of the day. Yes. It would be dinner time at the Broken Shield. He could literally smell the mutton pie. He said, “You owe me a kettle of Edith’s best, remember?”
“Oh, so I do. So I do. Goodness. We better hurry then, if we’re to get home while there’s some left.”
They crossed High Street and entered Broad Street. A spring of a sort returned to Stephen’s step. He was going home and he was glad.
Chapter 25
Will Thumper withdrew his plea against Stephen Attebrook for arson and house-breaking. He claimed that Clement had threatened him with death unless he brought the suit. Nevertheless, despite the claim of duress, Thumper’s confession exposed him to a counter-plea for false swearing, which was almost as bad as homicide. Attebrook could have had legal satisfaction, but let the matter die.
Clement agreed to abjure the realm rather than face the hangman, a decision he was lucky to be able to make, since it enabled him to escape the consequences of two homicides and the displeasure of one of the country’s leading jurists. He was assigned the departure point of Bristol, and given four days to reach it. But he never appeared there, as far as anyone knew. The following spring a traveler leaving the Bristol road south of Hereford to urinate in the woods discovered a skeleton among the undergrowth. It still wore the gray woolen shift of an abjurer and a heavy silver signet ring found with the bones caused everyone to believe this was Clement.
Valence was, predictably, furious that Baynard’s list was destroyed by immersion. Fearing a trick, he was not immediately inclined to take Attebrook’s word that the sodden, smeared parchments presented to him were the genuine article. But he reluctantly accepted fate when told there was a witness to the list’s discovery in Webbere’s rain barrel — the Lady Margaret de Thottenham, who corroborated the story to one of Valence’s agents that very same day.
As for that lady and O
livia Baynard, they were seen leaving Ludlow late on a Thursday afternoon shortly after the leave-taking of Valence’s representative, departing the Galdeford Gate and disappearing east toward Worcester. Little was heard in town again about Olivia. Some months later a man posing as her agent negotiated the sale on her behalf of the house and the rights to the burghage plot on which it sat. And about the same time, it was rumored that she had married a gentryman from Northumbria. Two or three people in town hoped that the rumor was true and that she had finally found a measure of happiness in life.
Harry the beggar acquired a handsome squarish leather case, which he used for carrying his belongings. He refused to say where he got it. “Matter of privilege,” he claimed when one questioner persisted in knowing the identity of his benefactor. Because of his situation, no one thought it reasonable to accuse him of theft.
The Friday morning after the ladies’ departure, Stephen Attebrook received a package. It was long and slender and accompanied by a note. The note was written in an elegant practiced hand. More oddly yet, it was in Latin rather than French or English. It said simply, “To Stephen, your obedient servant Passer, greetings. — I believe this is yours by right of battle. It would be wrong for us to take it, so I return it to you with my compliments.” Stephen let the note rest on his lap. Passer was Latin for sparrow. He knew only one person who could be called that.
When Attebrook opened the package, he found Clement’s sword.