by Jason Vail
“You’re right about that,” Stephen said. “But the fact remains, as a crown officer, one of my responsibilities is to keep the peace. Which means I’ll have to report you to the castle if you don’t cease and desist now.”
“Go ahead,” the soldier with the pitcher said. He put it on the counter and beckoned for a refill. “Won’t do no good. Our lord, he don’t care if we have a bit of fun.”
“No one objects to you having fun. This is not the time or place for it.”
Stephen expected another sharp retort, but the eyes of the men went to something behind him. Stephen heard a horse approaching. He half turned to keep the mob in view while he looked at whoever was coming.
There were two horses rather than one. The riders stopped their mounts. The leader was well dressed in a green outer tunic; its sleeves were unbuttoned and the man’s arms were out of them. His under tunic was blue and red with silver buttons at the cuff. He wore high boots which looked to be new, with hardly a crease on them.
“Sergeant,” the leader said, “I want the wagons loaded as soon as possible. There’s lots of work to do and no time to waste.”
“You heard him,” the sergeant said to the soldiers. Those who had cups put them on the counter and the group straggled toward the castle. A pitcher was left lying in the street. Stephen retrieved it and set it on the counter.
“I trust they weren’t too much trouble,” the lord said to Stephen, although his tone indicated that he knew they had been.
“Not out of the ordinary,” Stephen said.
The lord chuckled. “I should know better than to pay men on a Sunday. You’re Randall’s man, aren’t you?”
“That’s right.”
“I’m Richard Parfet.” He leaned over and extended his hand.
Stephen shook it. “Stephen Attebrook.”
“I’d stop and chat, but as I said, we’ve work to do. Melmerby,” Parfet addressed the dark-haired and mustachioed fellow beside him festooned with canteens and drinking skins, “have those filled, and no drinking yourself. I don’t want you falling off your horse. You always do that when you’re drunk.”
“No need to worry about me, sir,” Melmerby said.
“I always have to worry about you, Melmerby.”
“Good day,” Parfet said to Stephen and turned his horse toward the castle.
Melmerby got off his horse, but in doing so, he dropped an armload of wineskins and canteens. He looked up at Stephen almost as if he expected some help in recovering them. But he knew better than to expect this from Stephen, and scrabbled after the fallen canteens without any assistance.
Thoughts of the Thumpers had come back to mind now that the crisis at the wine shop had passed. It was early yet for the funeral, so Stephen left Melmerby to scramble in the dirt for the canteens as he turned east on High Street and strode for Galdeford Gate.
A bun seller whose shop stood just within the gate waved to him from her open door. He was surprised to see her, since businesses in the town were not allowed to be open on Sunday, when everyone was expected to attend Mass. But as at the wine shop, things were not as they should be, owing to the presence of the army. He knew he should just walk by. But temptation got the better of him.
“Clara, there wouldn’t be a bun just inside the door?” he asked.
“There might be,” Clara said, ducking inside and beckoning him to follow.
There was indeed a tray of buns. Stephen sniffed the air. No smell of fresh baking, unfortunately. “Left-overs, eh?” he asked.
“You’d think with all the soldiers in town, business would be better, but they fancy ale and women more than they do a good bun.”
“Savages, that’s what they are. How old are they?”
“Baked yesterday.”
“I’ll take two, no, three. Could you put a little extra honey on them?”
“Only for you, dear.” Clara disappeared into the back of the house, where several children could be heard in a dispute over a game of hoops. She returned with a small clay bottle. She unstoppered the bottle and dribbled honey on the three buns Stephen had selected. She put a finger to her lips. “No telling the bailiffs, now.”
“It’s just a gift, for a toiling public servant,” Stephen said.
“Of course it is. Oh! Look what you’ve dropped!” Clara collected the fragment of a pence Stephen had left on the tray.
“I don’t see anything,” Stephen said, mouth so full of bun that his words were barely understandable.
“It’s a pity about that Ormyn fellow. Did you know him?”
Stephen nodded. He knew all the castle guards at least by sight, since he trained sword-and-shield fighting with them most mornings.
“I wonder what will happen to the children,” Clara said.
“What do you mean?”
“There’ll be no one to look after them now.”
“Why? There’s a widow. Surely she’ll make provision.”
“They’re step-children,” Clara said. “Bridget can’t be counted on to take care of them, and Ormyn had no other family, that I know of.”
“You are remarkably well informed.” Stephen wished he had paid more attention, but then he rarely lingered after practice, and, anyway, men seldom spoke of their families; it was a subject out of bounds, and one never probed about it.
Clara sniffed. “It’s a small town, and I keep my ears open. As I’d expect of you too, given your business.” She gestured toward the gate. “Why, it wasn’t but last year that Bridget turned up. A pretty young thing, fourteen if a day. Spoiled not at all yet by hard living. She took up at first with some of that riff-raff that lived in the town ditch. Begged at the bridge there, much to One-Eye Dick’s ire. It was on the Galdeford side so the wardens couldn’t do anything about her, owing as she never bothered to get a town license. She almost got into a fight with Dick, came to knives drawn. But nobody did anything about that, either.”
“She was a beggar at the bridge?” Stephen asked, astonished.
“That’s what I just said. Not for long, though. She got a job at the Crow and then at the Pigeon. She’s got ambitions, that one, I’ll warrant.” The Crow was a tavern in Upper Galdeford not far away, and the Pigeon was a better class of inn on Corve Street north of town by the River Corve bridge.
“Sounds like a girl down on her luck willing to work hard.”
“Work hard on her back, I’d say. I’ll bet if you asked Herb at the Pigeon you’ll find she turned a trick or two upstairs.”
“Except I don’t see the reason to ask. What Bridget has done in her past life is not my concern.”
The bun seller laughed. “But it do make interesting conversation, eh?”
“On a dull Sunday, I suppose. If this was a dull Sunday, which it isn’t. I must be going. I’ve lots to do.”
“Enjoy your bun, dear.”
“I always do.”
Stephen took his leave, and passed through the gate. A section of the bridge over the ditch was roped off where it had burned late in the winter. Paupers often took refuge under the town bridges in bad weather, and one such party’s fire had caught the timbers of the bridge and burned a hole through the top before the fire watch had managed to extinguish it. It should have been repaired already, but the city fathers were debating whether to apply a patch or replace the structure entirely. Both cost money, and at the moment, money was in short supply. There was a great deal of opposition to adding a special tax to cover the expense because so many people were stretched from meeting the high price of corn, which had been driven up by the Welsh war and the coming of the English army.
A short distance beyond the gate the road forked, the left going to Upper Galdeford and the right to Lower Galdeford. Stephen went right. As he passed the stone cross at the fork, he remembered another time he had come this way, and the owl that had sat upon the stone cross. A fat raven occupied the cross now. It paused in poking the feathers under one wing to watch Stephen pass, cocking its head as if to get a good vie
w of the surviving bun in Stephen’s hand.
“You can’t have it,” Stephen said, stuffing the bun into his mouth and licking the honey from his fingers.
The houses along Lower Galdeford Street dribbled out to pastures and fields after a hundred yards or so, and it wasn’t long before he reached the orchard surrounding the Augustine priory that lay to the east of town. The scaffolding was still up on the church tower, but no one was working on it, as it was Sunday.
Beyond the priory, he came to a footpath leading toward the river. A wicker fence ran along the path and on the other side was a huge dung pile towering over a shack. The last time Stephen had come here, in search of a valuable list of the supporters of Simon de Montfort, he had hopped the fence and crossed the yard to the house, but this time, his visit was an official one, so he kept to the road until he came to the gate. It was an old house that had been added onto several times as if at a whimsy, with the newer parts forming the upper arms of what, more or less, stood in the shape of a U.
Children playing in the yard spotted him and ran into the house to warn of his approach, so Will Thumper, a short muscular fellow with graying black hair, and half his family were already outside waiting for him. Since Thumper had an enormous family, even the half made a good crowd. They did not look welcoming.
“G’morning, Will,” Stephen said with false cheer. “Nice barn you have there.” It was, in fact, a brand new barn, made of fresh wood. The thatch was still yellow.
Thumper made a sour face at mention of the barn. He had Stephen to thank for the fact it was new. Stephen had set fire to the old one to cover his escape after he had broken into Thumper’s house. “What do you want?”
“I want to talk to Tad.”
“Tad’s got nothing to say to you.”
“This is official business. Bring him out, or I go to the sheriff and have him hauled out. If that happens, the deputies might be inclined to search your house. I don’t think you want them to have a look inside that storeroom of yours.” Thumper was a man of many enterprises. One of them included dealing in stolen property, if not outright theft. Stephen had discovered his storeroom, which held that stolen property. Stephen had exchanged silence about the storeroom for Thumper’s willingness to drop his appeal about the burning of the barn.
“We’ve a deal on that. You’re breaking it now?”
“Oh, I won’t say anything. But who knows how far those boys will have to go to find Tad.”
“What official business?”
“A man was found dead outside the castle. One of the guards named Ormyn. Someone tossed him off the wall. You must have heard of it. The whole town knows.”
“We had nothing to do with that.”
“I’m not accusing you. But Tad found the body and didn’t tell anyone, except for a few of the town boys.”
Thumper’s mouth, already sagging at the corners, sagged even further. “He told some town boys?”
“That’s why I’ve come to you.”
Thumper spoke to an older woman whose hair was as gray as the thatch of the house, and just as disheveled. “Get Tad out here!”
The woman marched back to the house. She was gone a long time. Stephen wondered if Tad had taken to the rafters or some other hiding place when the children had announced his arrival, for he must know the purpose of Stephen’s errand. If Tad had gone into hiding, he could not evade the old woman who was probably skilled in finding hiding children, for presently she returned, dragging Tad by the collar. He was bigger than Stephen remembered, twelve or thirteen, and almost as tall as a man with hair that stuck out like a hay rick. The woman flung him at Thumper, who caught him and began to administer a beating with the cudgel he always carried in his belt. Tad fell to the ground under the rain of blows and curses, curling into a ball and covering his head.
Stephen allowed a few blows to connect before he stepped in. He caught the cudgel in mid-blow and stripped it from Thumper’s grasp. Then he hauled Tad to his feet. Thumper looked furious, whether at Stephen for his intervention or at Tad it was hard to say. Probably both. But since Thumper already knew that Stephen’s skill with a cudgel was formidable, and since this visit was official, he did not object to being disarmed.
Stephen tossed the cudgel to Thumper and drew Tad across the yard away from the crowd to the shelter of an oak. He sat the boy on the ground at the base of the tree and stood over him. Tad had recovered quickly from the brief beating, probably because he was used to beatings, and he wore a sullen but cautious expression, eyes flicking toward his father who had followed them.
“You aren’t talking to him that I don’t hear,” Thumper said.
“No, I will talk to Tad alone,” Stephen said. He figured that Tad might be more inclined to be truthful if Thumper did not overhear. This would enable him to lie freely about what they said.
After some hesitation, Thumper retreated across the yard.
Stephen squatted by Tad. Tad squinted at him. “Those snitches,” Tad said. “I’ll get them.”
“No, you won’t. You’re to leave them alone. Surely you must know that your find would be known eventually. Such things can’t be kept secret. Somebody always talks. Does your father know you made them pay?”
“You know about that?”
“Of course, I know.”
“He don’t know.”
“So you’ve kept the money for yourself?”
“You going to tell?”
“That bit’s your affair. I want to know how you found him.”
“We was playing on the hill. And there he was. Lying dead as a door-nail.”
“You? Playing? Where nobody ever goes? Come on. I’m not that stupid.”
Tad looked worried. “I can’t. He’ll have my head off, if I do.”
“Your father had a hand in this? Was he there?”
“Not exactly.”
“Not exactly a hand, or he was there?”
“He was there.”
Stephen had not expected this answer and it took a moment for him to absorb it. “What were you up to?”
“Don’t make me tell. Please!”
Whatever they had been doing it had to be seriously illegal for Tad to plead like this. Scheming and lying came naturally, but he wasn’t the pleading sort.
“Did this have anything to do with the theft of Saint Milburga’s bones?”
“You’ll have to ask dad. I’m not saying nothing more.”
Stephen stood and beckoned to Will Thumper. Thumper swaggered over. “You were there when Ormyn’s body was found,” Stephen said.
“He told you that?”
“An astute guess. What were you doing up there?”
“A bit of business.”
“So I heard. You’ll have to tell me, Will. Or I’ll take young Tad up to the castle and let the boys there pry it out of him.”
To Stephen’s astonishment, Thumper laughed. “You do that. You just do that. Won’t do no good. I’m good friends with them now.”
Stephen frowned. Thumper, a friend with the castle garrison now? “I suppose I shall have to ask them how such an incredible thing is possible.”
Thumper looked alarmed, realizing that he had said too much. “Look, it wasn’t nothing illegal.”
“That’s not the impression I got. Nor the one you’re giving me now.”
“It wasn’t illegal for us.”
“Not for you? But for whom?”
“Look, if you keep quiet about it, I’ll let you on to a little piece of it.”
“Thumper, bribing a crown official is a serious crime.”
“What? It happens all the time.”
“I think we’re done here.” Stephen stepped toward the gate.
Thumper caught his arm. “Look, it’s honest work for a change. Don’t spoil it.”
“Tell me what it was, and perhaps I can find a way to forebear.”
Thumper rubbed his hands on his shirt. “All right, then. Every night I take a couple of my girls and a few of the ne
ighbor girls up to the castle. There’s that old sally port on the north side, beneath the northwest tower.”
“I know of it.”
“The sergeant of the guard comes down and unlocks the grate for us and lets us in.”
“He lets you in the castle?”
“Not in the castle, exactly. Into the tunnel.”
“The one that runs into the tower?”
“That’s it. There’s only one tunnel I know of.”
“And what do you do there?” Stephen asked the question, although he already had an inkling of the answer.
“The folk staying in the inner bailey come down, and pay me a half penny each for a half hour with one of the girls.”
“What’s Tad’s role in this?”
“He fetches the pallets. That floor’s hard and cold.”
“Not to mention stony,” Stephen murmured.
“And that, too. You’ve been in there?”
Stephen had in fact been in the tunnel as a boy. The tunnel led to a shaft that rose to the northwest tower’s ground floor, which was used as a storeroom, dank, musty, and filled with barrels and sacks. It had always been a good hiding place for squires looking to shirk their duties. The hatch sealing the shaft was locked, but those who knew someone could get the key. This had been at least fifteen years ago, but he doubted anything had changed. He asked, “So you were there Thursday night?” That was the night Ormyn disappeared.
Thumper nodded.
“The whole night?”
“Most of it.”
“And when you left, you found Ormyn’s body?”
“Not exactly.”
“Please don’t keep me guessing. It is very tedious.”
“We were doing our business when about midnight some rough sorts came to the grate. Some lads from the army, I think. Scared the hell out of me, I’ll tell you.”
“Will, I’m surprised you’re scared of anything.”
“Well, they had swords and axes.” Thumper squinted as he sought his memory. “And, strange, one of them had a shovel. Banged it on the grille. I’ve no idea why anyone would bother with a shovel that time of night. But I don’t like to argue with such folk. And the grate was unlocked, you see. They could have come right in. But they stayed outside. Just told us to stay put and say nothing to anyone. Otherwise, there’d be hell to pay. They knew who we were and what we were up to. I don’t know how they knew, but they did. Said they’d find us and cut our throats.”