by Jason Vail
“Of course we thought of that,” Stephen said. “Didn’t we, Gilbert?”
“Yes, naturally,” Gilbert said without any hesitation. “But the relic is the more precious object that a few baubles. It had to be the relic the thief was after.”
“Hmmph,” Harry snorted. “If it was me, I’d be after those stones. They’re probably worth a lot, and much easier to sell, if your thief has a mind to do that.”
“Well,” Stephen said, “they are certainly worth quite a lot by themselves, that’s true.”
“You have a criminal mind,” Gilbert said.
“It’s not my mind that’s criminal,” Harry said, “I just understand them better than you, you pious wretch.”
“Well, thank you for the pious part, anyway.”
“Yer welcome.” Harry’s fingers flicked the surface of the water in the tub. “It’s getting cold. I think I’m done. Would you call for the porter?”
“What,” Gilbert said, “having trouble getting out yourself?”
“I’ve already paid for them to remove me. More dignified that way. I must keep up appearances, you know.”
“Appearances are important,” Stephen said, rising and heading for the gap in the curtains.
“Quite so. Gilbert, good fellow, you wouldn’t mind arranging my raiments so I can get at them handily, would you?”
The porters not only lifted Harry from the tub, but they helped dry him off and dress him, and then they carried him up the steps into the house and deposited him in the front hall by his board.
Stephen opened the door but hesitated to step outside. It had begun to rain, not a heavy downpour, but a steady one. The street was already sodden, with a stream coursing down the center, and it would not take much churning to turn it into Ludlow’s famous mud.
“You wouldn’t mind lending us a couple of cloaks?” Stephen asked Ted, the proprietor, who was wiping up a spill on one of the tables. “We’ve neglected to bring ours.”
“Lending?” Ted asked, as if the thought of giving value without getting any in return was a foreign idea. “I suppose I could.” He spoke to one of the girls, and she went out, returning shortly with two cloaks, one for Stephen and one for Gilbert.
“None for me?” Harry asked.
“If I give you one, I’ve no assurance I’ll ever see it again,” Ted said, “You’d likely sell it first thing.” He flung his towel over a shoulder and left the hall.
The three went outside, but lingered in the shelter afforded by the overhanging upper stories of the house before plunging into the wet.
“Damn it,” Harry said. “All that money spent on getting clean wasted.”
Stephen looked down on Harry, strapped to his board and glowering in dismay at the prospect of the long haul up the hill to Bell Lane. There was no one on the street owing to the rain, and Saint John’s Hospital’s shutters were closed and the prior nowhere in view. Feeling a bit drunk and wobbly, Stephen passed his borrowed cloak to Gilbert.
He squatted down to bring his head level with Harry’s. “I’ll carry you, but if you say anything about it to anyone, I’ll have your tongue out.”
“Tongue out. Got it.”
Harry unstrapped himself as Stephen turned his back. Harry put an arm around Stephen’s neck. Stephen stood up. It took a great deal of effort, since Harry was solid and heavy, but he managed it without staggering.
“For God’s sake, man,” Stephen sputtered. “Go easy! You’re choking me.”
“Sorry.” Harry lowered his arm, which was as thick and sturdy as an oak limb, from Stephen’s neck.
“I’ll take that cloak now,” Stephen said to Gilbert, who draped the cloak over the both of them. “Pull the hood down so no one sees who I am.”
“This isn’t going to fool anyone,” Gilbert said.
“If we go quickly, no one will see. Don’t forget Harry’s board.”
Stephen stepped into the wet, walking carefully so as not to slip in the mud.
“You look like a hunchback,” Gilbert said as he caught up.
“I like that,” Harry said, his breath on the back of Stephen’s neck. “The hunchback of Ludlow. It rolls off the tongue better than the gimp of Ludlow.”
“Oh, shut up,” Stephen said, and he plodded up the hill to Broad Gate.
Chapter 7
The problem of Ormyn’s death was on Stephen’s mind when he awoke the next morning. He had nothing to gain by spending time contemplating the matter, even if there was a chance of finding the answer, which there was not. No one had seen or heard a thing, not a cry for help or for fear, or the crashing of Ormyn’s body into the hazel wood on the slope. Yet all he could think of as he lay in bed were imaginings of Ormyn’s last moments — the confrontation with the killers, what might have been said to lull him into suspecting nothing, how they lifted him above the parapet, Ormyn’s terror and his sense of helplessness in those final moments, and the long fall into the eternal night. Perhaps it was the funeral that brought these thoughts to his attention. It was to be held later in the morning after Prime. He didn’t want to go, but he had to.
When it became clear that the sun was going to insist on rising, Stephen threw aside the blanket and stumbled to the table before the window. He swabbed his face, arms, and chest with a wet cloth from the basin. He opened the shutters and wrung out the cloth, which he lay on the windowsill to dry, and stuck his head out to check below for pedestrians before he dumped the contents of the basin.
He heard voices in the yard, which was still in shadow, for the sun had not climbed more than half a fist’s width from the horizon. Stephen saw Jennifer Wistwode, Gilbert’s daughter, sitting on a bench at the stable with Harry at her feet. She resembled her parents too closely for anyone to call Jennie pretty, a stout girl with a round, blunt face, but she was lively and happy, and so she did not lack for admirers. The fact that lately she had such stolen moments with Harry was a cause of worry to her parents, since anyone spending too much time in Harry’s company was likely to be corrupted beyond salvation. It was a Sunday, and begging wasn’t allowed on Sundays, so Harry had the day off. He said something that Stephen did not catch which made Jennifer laugh. She leaned over and tugged the new point of Harry’s beard. Harry’s blush was so intense that Stephen could see it even at this distance in the bad light.
Then Edith’s voice could be heard calling Jennifer to get ready for Sunday Mass. Jennifer shot to her feet and hurried across the yard. Harry watched her go with a wistful expression until he became aware that Stephen was watching from above.
“Careful there,” Harry called, “I’m not catching you when you fall out.”
“Come on over, I’ll give you another bath.” Stephen held out the basin.
“Not today, thanks.”
As Stephen finished pouring the basin water into the yard, the Wistwode family emerged — Gilbert, Edith, Jennie, Gilbert the younger, and baby Howard who was not yet a year old in the arms of his nurse. Edith spotted Stephen before he could duck out of sight.
She shook a finger at him. “Why are you not ready?”
“I think I’ll pass,” Stephen said, peering around the window frame, embarrassed that he was half naked and that she had probably seen it. “Perhaps this afternoon.”
“You’re not thinking of making him go to Mass?” Harry asked. “Remember what happened the last time, dead bodies everywhere in the churchyard.”
“There were not dead bodies everywhere,” Edith retorted. “There was only the one, that poor girl frozen under the path.”
“Yes, well, you’re sure to find another. There are bodies lying about wherever Stephen goes.”
“I’ve had enough of you this morning, Harry. Find something useful to do if you too are unwilling to attend Mass.” Edith turned about. “Gilbert! Let us leave these two to their fate.”
“I have something useful to do,” Harry mouthed to Edith’s back. While Harry’s tongue could cut others like a sword, he was careful around Edith.
Now that Edith was out of the house and he was safe, Stephen went down to the hall. He collected a new loaf of bread, still warm and soft, and a half roll of cheese, and went out to the stable. Jennie should already have delivered Harry’s breakfast, but since Harry was always hungry, Stephen broke the loaf and the cheese in half and left those pieces on the bench for him.
“What are you working on?” Stephen asked. “Another of the bath-house girls?”
Harry had bent to another block of wood on which he was carving. “No.”
Harry did not offer any further explanation, so Stephen pressed on. “Who then?”
“Nobody.” Harry reached for the bread and cheese.
Stephen moved them away. “Nothing until you show me.”
“You are a swine.”
“No, I am trying to show polite interest. You are the swine.”
Harry regarded the bread and cheese, as if considering an attempt to snatch them from Stephen’s hand. “All right, then,” he said, surrendering the block of wood.
It was not one of the bath-house girls after all, but a likeness of the girl Rosamond whom Harry, and in fact not Stephen, had found dead in the churchyard last Christmas Day.
“This is good,” Stephen said, giving back the carving. “You should show it to the prior at Saint Laurence’s.”
“Why?”
“He might be interested in acquiring it.”
“He’ll want me to make a gift of it. Besides, Jennie wants it.”
“What should she want with a likeness of Rosamond?”
“She thinks it will bring good luck.”
“Whatever gave her the idea it would do that?”
Harry shrugged. “I don’t know. People think funny things.”
“This isn’t the first such carving you’ve made of her.”
“I might have done one or two more.”
“One or two more!”
“I gave her one before, my first one, in fact. She gave it away to someone else. Now she needs another.”
“And this other one or two? What happened to them?”
“They might’ve got sold.”
“Does Gilbert know you’re dealing in Rosamond’s likeness?”
“No, and don’t you tell him. He might be inspired to raise my rent, or something.” Harry lived in one of the stalls used for storing hay.
“I cannot believe that you’re profiting from that poor girl’s death.”
“If it wasn’t me, it’d be somebody else. Besides, I’ve got to do something to make up for what I’ve lost in begging. People aren’t as charitable after what you did to me.”
“Don’t blame me. Now you’ve gone and done it to yourself.”
Harry stroked his trimmed beard and grinned. “Jennie likes me beard this way.”
“It is an improvement.”
“So, Gilbert said that you asked Sir Geoff yesterday to take you on as a knight.”
Stephen did not say anything.
“And he refused. Owing to your disability.”
Stephen nodded.
“You know, I’ve told you time and again to sell that damned horse, since you’ve got no real need for him. You could make a fortune, maybe even enough to buy a small plot of land, set yourself up as a gentleman. They say a horse like that is worth a lot.”
“He is.”
“Well, then, see some sense. If you can’t be a soldier, you can at least amuse yourself lording it over your tenants.”
“I’ll not sell the horse.” This sort of talk almost always put Stephen in a sulk, especially since there was some truth in what Harry said: he might get enough from the sale of the horse to buy a small manor. Rich merchants bought manors all the time and thereby entered the gentry. Yet he could not bring himself to take this step. He could not put words to why. It just felt like going down rather than up, and he was too far down already.
Seeing that Stephen would not be moved by this old argument, Harry changed subjects. “How does that work, exactly?”
“What do you mean?”
“Well, I’ve seen you don’t use the stirrup on the left side. What’s keeping you?”
Stephen thought about explaining it, but Harry could not ride a horse and words might not paint a clear picture. There was no one in view, so he went into the stable and removed one of the stirrup leathers from his saddle. He sat back on the bench and removed his boot and sock so that Harry could see his stump. He dangled the stirrup and put the remains of his foot onto it. “Look here. You can see there is hardly enough left to get a purchase on the stirrup.”
“But you’re managing.”
“Only because we’re sitting still. But there’s a grave risk that my foot will slip through, like this.” Stephen pushed the heel through the stirrup so that the stirrup hung on his ankle. “This is bad, and if I happen to fall, the horse can drag me to my death.”
“That would be unpleasant.”
Stephen pulled his foot back through the stirrup. “In battle, you have to be able to stand securely in the stirrups as you wield a sword. The danger of slipping through then is magnified. Falls are common.”
“So Sir Geoff wouldn’t take you on because of that?”
“That’s his story.”
“You poor dear. Life is full of disappointments. You’ll just have to get used to your little measure.”
“Yes, it is, isn’t it?” Stephen lay the stirrup on the ground and put his sock and boot back on before anyone stuck his head out of the house, not that anyone really cared what they were doing out here.
Harry picked up the stirrup. “There might be something I can do with this.”
“What are you talking about?”
“Just leave it with me for a few days. I’ve an idea.”
“What if I am called to journey somewhere? I’ve this relic to find. I doubt it’s anywhere close by now.”
“You don’t need the stirrup. You don’t use it.”
Stephen sighed. “Well, that’s true. It’s no better than a decoration.”
The climb up the hill from Bell Lane could leave even a fit person panting, and Stephen was breathing hard by the time he reached the wine shop at the corner, where a disturbance had broken out. Almost a dozen rough-looking men who had to be soldiers were clustered about the shop, banging on the shutters and demanding that the Spicers open up.
A voice within the shop shouted that it was Sunday, and the shop dared not open, to which one of the men outside shouted back, “Fuck Sunday! We want drink!”
“Well, you can’t have it!” the voice within the shop answered, although the waver in the tone did not sound convincing.
“You know, boys,” Stephen said to their backs, “the town bailiffs are just over there.” He gestured toward the Guild Hall which stood halfway down High Street.
“Piss off,” said a fellow with a great black moustache.
“I don’t see no fucking bailiffs,” said another, whose sagging jowls and squinting eyes made him resemble a bulldog.
“You want trouble?” asked a third.
“Just trying to give you some friendly advice,” Stephen said. He could practically smell the menace. It wouldn’t take much for this crowd to turn on him if Spicer didn’t open his shop and they didn’t get what they wanted.
“You can stick your advice up your ass,” came the reply as the pounding redoubled. The racket was loud enough that faces began appearing in the windows along Broad Street, but no one dared come out to intervene. The number of assaults and affrays had mushroomed since the town had swelled with soldiers, and most of the victims were townspeople. Pleas to the castle had brought declarations from the officers that they would bring things under control, but the locals had not detected any changes yet.
John the Younger at last lost his nerve and dropped one of the shutters. He backed away and one of his boys appeared in his place, hastily placing clay cups on the shutter, which served as a counter. He started to fill the cups from a pitcher, but he spilled so much a
nd was so slow that one of the soldiers took the pitcher from his hand and did the job for him.
“Give us another!” one of the soldiers cried, referring to the pitcher, which had emptied immediately.
The boy produced a replacement, which was promptly swept off the counter and passed among the soldiers, many of whom did not bother with a cup but drank directly from the pitcher.
“Sirs! Sirs! The charge!” John the Younger called from a prudent distance within the shop where he was out of reach in case the soldiers took offense at the request for payment.
One of the men tossed a few coins through the open window. The rest of the men ignored the plea. It must have been enough because John the Younger did not protest any further. But perhaps he was happy to be paid at all. There had been a problem with payment at other establishments.
“What’re you looking at?” one of the soldiers asked Stephen, lowering the pitcher from his mouth, wine soaking his beard and dripping on his coat.
Stephen regretted that he had said anything. He’d had the vague notion that he should do something about such open and obvious lawbreaking, but exactly what, since he was alone, was unclear. It was easy from one’s armchair to suggest that he should put a stop to this open law-breaking, but another when you were alone before ten hard men eager for their pleasure.
The soldiers looked more closely at Stephen. Although some of them might enjoy a good beating now that they were fueled with wine, they hesitated, for the quality of Stephen’s blue coat and red-green stockings, though patched in places and fraying in others, said that he was a member of the minor gentry. The fellows’ senses had not dulled so much yet that they did not consider to whom Stephen might be connected and the cost to themselves of a bit of rough fun at his expense.
“Who are you?” one of the soldiers asked.
“My name is Stephen Attebrook. I am the deputy coroner here.”
“Look at you,” said a soldier as he took up the pitcher. “Must not pay much.”
This brought a laugh.