by Jason Vail
Bridge was quiet for a moment. “On Sundays. We all went for bowls on Sundays. Herb gave Simon and me a room for an hour while Ormyn threw his pay away.”
“Ormyn never suspected a thing, then,” Gilbert said. “The poor fellow.”
“Poor my ass,” Bridget spat. “He was a monster.”
Gilbert blinked in surprise. “A monster? That is a heavy charge.”
“He beat me and the children over the smallest thing. A cup out of place on the table could set him off. Always in debt because of that place, always quick with his fists whenever I objected.”
There was a ring of falsehood and exaggeration in the accusation about the beatings, and Gilbert wasn’t sure whether to believe this, after what he had learned about Bridget from Sally. But he tried to keep an open mind.
“She has just condemned herself, and Simon,” Turling declared. “They both had reason to be rid of Ormyn. They must have conspired together.”
“I doubt that little Bridget here could heave her husband off the wall by herself,” Gilbert agreed.
“I didn’t! I swear!” Bridget cried, and through the door came Simon’s voice, for he had heard every word: “She’s innocent! We’re both innocent! I took the sword, I admit it! But I didn’t kill him! We didn’t!”
“Unlock the door,” Turling commanded the soldier with the key. “Let’s hear this face to face."
The soldier fumbled with the lock and stood back as the door opened. Simon filled the doorway. Bridget slapped him hard. “You took his sword, and you didn’t tell me!”
Simon put his hand to his face. “I saw his body from the wall the morning after. If anyone knew I had the sword, I knew I’d be accused.”
“So how did you come into possession of it?” Gilbert asked.
“I found it,” Simon said.
“That is the most implausible thing I have ever heard,” Gilbert said.
“I did. In the yard.”
“By yard, what do you mean? The inner bailey or the outer?”
“The inner of course. We both had duty that night. On the same watch.”
“Where in the inner yard?”
“By the chapel.”
Gilbert thought for a moment. “Sir Ralph, I would like to have him show us exactly where he contends he found the sword.”
“What for?”
“I think this detail may be important somehow. I would like to see the place with my own eyes rather have to rely on Jameson’s description.”
“You mean, let him out?” Turling asked. “He could escape.”
“Not surrounded by so many men. Shackle his feet. That will slow him down enough even for a baby to catch him.”
Shackles could not be found in the guildhall, but a length of rope was used to tie Simon’s feet together as a horse was hobbled. Soldiers held Simon’s arms, and the party left the hall, with soldiers on either side of Bridget as well.
There weren’t many people on High Street, but Gilbert did not spot a single one who failed to gawk at the spectacle of a hobbled Simon being led toward the castle.
The castle wards at the gate gawked as well, seeing one of their number treated in this way. One asked Turling as they passed, “Sir, what’s going on?”
But Turling’s grim expression did not alter, nor did he respond. If Turling would not answer, none of the others felt daring enough to do so either, apart from a whispered, “We’ll tell you later.”
Turling halted at the doorway to the chapel within the inner bailey. “Ask your questions,” he said to Gilbert.
“All right, Simon,” Gilbert said. “Where did you find the sword?”
“There.” Simon pointed to a spot along the north wall of the chapel.
“Perhaps you should walk over and show me the exact spot.”
Simon hobbled along the wall and halted beneath one of the windows. “It was here.”
Gilbert glanced up, counting the number of windows. The place Simon indicated was the one Stephen said belonged to the chamber where the relic had been kept. “And how did you happen to find it here? You said you were on watch that night.”
“I was on the wall, there.” Simon gestured toward the west wall on the other side of the bailey. “A messenger arrived. There was quite a flurry of attention at it, people coming out with torches and such, grooms attending to his horse. I saw it lying there on the ground in the light of the torches.”
“Did you know it for what it was?”
“That it belonged to Ormyn? Not until I fetched it.”
“And you didn’t wonder what it was doing there?”
“Oh, I wondered all right.”
“But you didn’t seek him out to return it.”
There was a pause. “No. I didn’t.”
“You were determined to keep it.”
Simon nodded, glancing apprehensively at Bridget.
“You fancied it,” Gilbert said.
Simon nodded again.
“Like you fancied his wife,” Turling growled. “You bastard. I don’t believe this fairy tale. The long and the short of it is, you killed him for the sword and for his wife.”
“I swear, I didn’t kill him!”
“So I take it that you hid the sword until you could get it safely out of the castle and into your brother’s hands,” Gilbert said.
Simon nodded a third time. “I thought no one would find it there.” He then added, “I heard voices that night.”
“Voices?” Gilbert echoed.
“Coming from over there.” Simon waved a hand at the wall walk above and behind the hall’s roof. “It sounded like Ormyn, and another. They didn’t speak long. It could have been the wind. At least, I thought so at the time. When I went up there, I saw no one.”
“This is getting us nowhere,” Turling said. “I’ll have the truth out of you in short order. Take him to the gaol. We’ll question him there.”
The soldiers marched Simon toward the gate to the outer bailey, with Turling following, hands behind his back. Gilbert and Bridget remained by the chapel.
“Aren’t you coming?” Turling called.
“No,” Gilbert said. “I think I’ve heard enough.”
“They’re going to hurt him, aren’t they?” Bridget asked as she too was led away.
“I imagine they are.”
“If you believe him then you’d stop it.”
“Do you believe him?”
“Yes, despite what he did, I do.”
“I think I believe him as well, oddly enough, even though I hardly see a reason to do so. But I’m just a clerk. I have no power over Turling and his sort.” Gilbert turned away, feeling sorry for Simon and no closer to the solution of Ormyn’s death than he had been when he started.
The screams began as Gilbert reached the main gate. He paused and turned back to toward the sounds, his stomach writhing with dismay, and was about to hurry out of earshot when he saw Herbert Jameson approaching, head down, hands over his ears. Space in the castle gaol was too precious for keeping the likes of him, and he had been released for now.
“That bastard!” Jameson spat as he reached Gilbert.
“That is one word one might use to describe him,” Gilbert said as he fell alongside as best he could, as eager as Jameson to get as far away from the screaming as he could.
Jameson stopped just beyond the gate and turned on Gilbert. “I warned Simon not to have anything to do with her!”
“With Bridget?”
“She worked for a time at the Pigeon after those who run the Crow threw her out. She was trouble, always complaining about this or that. Nothing was ever good enough where she was concerned. It was enough to make your head burst, sometimes. I was glad when Ormyn took her away. I think I’d have killed her if I had to listen to her whining and carrying on one minute longer. Then Ormyn took to bringing her along when he played bowls. To keep an eye on her, I suppose. He was a wee bit jealous. I guess he had cause, because it weren’t long before she winked at Simon and he was lost f
rom that moment. I warned him to have nothing to do with her. But he didn’t listen, the weak-kneed fool. I like to think our mother didn’t raise no fools, but he turned into one where Bridget was concerned, damn him. There’s nothing we can do for Simon now, is there?”
“I wish there were.”
“What the hell good are you, then?” Jameson spat and left Gilbert standing in High Street.
“Not good for much, I suppose,” Gilbert said to himself. “Not good for much at all.”
Chapter 19
“Do you really think Bridget might be involved?” Gilbert asked Stephen for at least the third time. The pair huddled by the fireplace while night fell and the temperature dropped on the evening of Stephen’s return from Montgomery.
“I don’t know,” Stephen said. He hugged his cloak about his shoulders, and stared into the flames, trying to put his thoughts in order about what he must do now that it was clear he was not going to find the relic. Selling a horse was the first thing to do. He shrank from such a decision, but it was the only way to get enough money to tide him over until he found another position. “It’s not my affair now.”
“It’s a pity you feel that way. Simon’s life, and Bridget’s as well, depend on what we do. You’re going to leave them to their fates? Turling’s convinced that Bridget is guilty, even if Simon hasn’t implicated her so far. What if they are innocent after all?”
“What else am I going to do? Parfet’s dead. The trail is cold. FitzAllen will be back in a month or six weeks. The campaign isn’t going to last much longer than that. I’ll be arrested on one pretext or another. My life’s worth about as much as Jameson’s if that happens.”
“When will you go, then?”
“I’ll have to raise some money first. Sir Geoff’s late on our salaries again.”
“You’ll follow Harry’s advice?”
“When market day comes round again. I should have sold a horse when the army was here. I’d probably have got a better price for her. Can’t be helped now. The sooner I’m out of here, the better.”
“Edith will miss you.”
“No, she won’t. She’ll be glad to have her chamber back. What favor did my cousin do for you that it’s cost you so much to make amends?”
“I’d rather not go into that. It was an unsavory business.”
“Knowing you, it must have been bad indeed.”
“Don’t make light of my troubles. I don’t make light of yours.”
“Your pardon.”
“Granted.” After a pause, Gilbert added, “Perhaps if we sleep on it, the solution will come. You’ve a few days left to give it one last try.”
“All right, I shall sleep on it.” Stephen sat back, feeling oddly better. Although the trails seemed to have gone cold and the thrill of the hunt had diminished, a glimmer of the thrill still smoldered. It was harder to let go of than he had anticipated.
The solutions to the mysteries did not seem any clearer as Stephen awoke the next morning. When he turned his thoughts to the matter as he washed in his basin, his mind filled with uncertainty. It was not a satisfactory way to start the day.
He pulled on a shirt before throwing open the shutters to dump out the wash water. As he upended the basin, he noticed Harry sitting by the stable door in the same place he usually occupied to take the rising sun on Sundays. But this was a Tuesday.
“What are you still doing here?” Stephen called down.
Harry glanced up with a sour expression and did not respond. Without his beard it was much easier to read his moods, although sourness seemed to predominate when he wasn’t trying to look pathetic. Yet there was something more than the usual indisposition in it.
Stephen finished dressing and descended to the hall, where he appropriated a trencher of bread and cheese which he carried out to the yard. He sat next to Harry. “Had your breakfast yet?”
Harry’s eyes flicked up then fell away. “Jennie was out with it earlier.”
Stephen expected Harry to snatch a piece of bread or cheese, but his hands did not move from his lap. Stephen bit into a hunk of cheese, which proved to be older and harder than anticipated. “You want to talk about it?”
“Talk about what?”
“Whatever’s bothering you. You ill or something?”
“No. I’m fine. Everything’s fine. The world’s fine, which means it’s as fucked up as usual.”
“Hmm. You and Jennie have a fight?”
“No, we’re a pair of love birds.”
“Well, I am surprised that neither Edith nor Gilbert have noticed that.”
“Gilbert’s too thick. I worry more about Edith. . . . All hell’s going to break loose today.”
“You mean your infatuation is now public knowledge? And that she’s going to hear of it?”
“Not that. We both been attainted, Jennie and me.”
Stephen was surprised to hear this. Attainment was the formal bringing of a charge of wrongdoing. He could not imagine what the both of them had done. “Well, I know you are the criminal sort, but Jennie! What have to done to lead her to crime?”
“We’ve been selling these little carvings I’ve been making, or rather I make them and she sells them to travelers at the inn and a few townsfolk here and there. We split the profits.”
Stephen saw the nature of the offense clearly now. “So a bailiff caught you, eh?”
Harry nodded. “No license for commerce. You’ve got to have a license to take a shit in this town.”
“That doesn’t explain why you’re sitting here when you should be at Broad Gate.”
“The bailiff told me my beggar’s permit was suspended. For doing business in violation. Said he’d have me arrested if he caught me there.”
“That is unfortunate.” It was, in fact, more than unfortunate. It was a disaster from Harry’s point of view. He had no means now of supporting himself.
“Unfortunate.” Harry dragged the word out to three times its normal length. “That’s a clever way of putting it.”
“So when did this happen?”
“Late yesterday. Word’s not got around to here yet. But it won’t be long. Do you think she’ll throw me out?”
“That is a possibility. I believe she regards you as a bad influence on young Jennie.”
“She’s always wanted a reason to be rid of me.”
“You are taking up valuable space, after all.”
“You are not cheering me up.”
“I was not put here on earth to cheer people up. That’s Gilbert’s job. Do you have any of your savings left?”
“Course I do. Why?”
“It seems to me that the prudent course is to throw yourself on the town clerk’s mercy and pay your fine and Jennie’s before Edith finds out about this.”
Harry considered this plan for a moment. “All right. But that bastard Tarbent will want a bribe.” Edmund Tarbent, the town clerk, was as grasping a man as ever held any position of authority.
“Of course he will. But that’s how justice is obtained.”
“I can’t just go clumping around Ludlow with all that money. I’ll need a bodyguard.”
“As I am not otherwise occupied this morning, I suppose I could accompany you. The fresh air will do me good.”
“Fresh air? In Ludlow?”
“Fresher than here, certainly. That privy does stink a bit, doesn’t it?”
“It should, considering what’s in it.”
It would have taken a long time for Harry to climb Broad Street to High, and then along its length to the guild hall upon his board, so Stephen summoned one of the servants, the boy Mark, to haul Harry in the handcart. Mark disliked this chore because he loathed Harry, and Harry didn’t like it because it cost him a farthing that he could ill afford.
“You’re pretty free with my money,” Harry complained as Stephen heaved him onto the bed of the cart.
“Quit your complaining. I am about to resolve all your troubles.”
“Not all of them,” H
arry said, settling onto the cart.
“You’ll have to take care of your love life by yourself.”
“What are you talking about?” Mark asked.
“None of your business,” Harry snapped.
“If he’s going to be rude to me again, I’ll have none of this,” Mark said, “no matter what you’re paying.”
“It is a private matter,” Stephen said. “Harry’s entitled to his secrets like anyone else. Now, let’s get going.”
Mark took up the handles and jerked with such force that Harry nearly toppled backward out of the cart.
“Easy there!” Harry cried.
“Ha!” Mark declared, making for the gate almost at a trot, the cart jolting to and fro over the uneven ground. “Give me any sass now, and you’ll know what for!”
“Stephen! Do something about this wretched boy!”
“Mark,” Stephen admonished, “behave.”
“Of course, sir,” Mark said with a wicked backward grin. “I’m behaving as well as he’s entitled.”
“If I die, it’s your fault.” Harry glared at Stephen. “Oh! You think this is funny, do you?”
“Me? No. Of course not.”
Despite the precariousness of the conveyance, Harry reached the guild hall on High Street in one piece without falling off the cart, although the turn at the corner with Broad Street was a near thing as Mark charged it with extra vigor. Perhaps the fact that there were people at Spicers’ wines shop who witnessed this had something to do with it, since they found the spectacle of Harry clinging to the bouncing cart to be very amusing and called insults through the windows.
When they reached the guild hall, Mark dropped the cart handles, which caused the cart to pitch forward and would have tossed Harry to the ground if Stephen hadn’t caught his shoulder. Four of the town bailiffs were lounging on a bench beneath the overhang formed by the the hall’s first floor, which jutted out from the rest of the building. They took in Mark’s performance with appreciation. One of them said, “What you doing here, Harry? Seeing the sights? You’re awful far from your usual haunts.”