by Jason Vail
“Wagers,” Stephen said.
“What?”
“Wagers — wagers and bowls.”
“All right,” Gilbert ventured. “They go together, usually.”
“Parfet was a bowler. Remember, we saw him here.”
“But you said you didn’t think he had anything to do with anything. If he had stolen the relic, he wouldn’t have needed to go on that ill-fated raid.”
“No, but Melmerby may have done.”
“Melmerby? Who’s that?”
“I forgot. You wouldn’t know. He was Parfet’s valet or chamberlain, or something. I was never quite clear on what. But he was always at Parfet’s side, except at the end.”
Gilbert drew a breath. “So Melmerby would have been there, in Wattepas’ shop, and seen the emeralds.”
“Yes, he had to have been.”
“But what does this have to do with wagers and bowls?”
“Melmerby was a great bowler. He won almost three shillings from me, although I never paid it.”
“Stephen!”
“He died. Mysteriously. I told you.”
“I still do not get the connection.”
“Melmerby had to have played here. Which means he probably played with Ormyn and Wace —”
“— and probably won.”
“Yes.”
“And so . . .?”
“Wace knew where the monks had put the relic for safekeeping. He could have been induced to reveal the hiding place as payment for his debt.”
“And Ormyn? How does he come into this?”
“He was a climber, remember? It would take a good climber to get in and out of that window. And Simon said he found Ormyn’s sword by the chapel’s north wall. He must have given it to Melmerby to hold so as not to be encumbered.”
“Then that messenger came in and caused a commotion, with people rushing about bearing torches which will have lit up the entire bailey.”
“Right. Melmerby dropped the sword at the surprise and they fled up the stairs to the east wall, leaving it there on the ground beneath the very window to the relic’s hiding place.”
“Does that mean Melmerby killed Ormyn?”
“He is the only possible suspect. Imagine it — they get to the wall walk behind the hall where they can’t be seen and Ormyn finds that Melmerby has left his sword behind. Ormyn will naturally believe that will incriminate him. They argue. Perhaps Ormyn wants to go back and retrieve it. Melmerby hits Ormyn as much to shut him up as anything. Remember, Ormyn had been struck on the jaw. He had the same sort of injury a man gets from a blow from a fist. The blow leaves Ormyn dazed. Melmerby impulsively throws him over the wall — thus ridding himself of the only witness to his crime and avoiding the need to share any of its proceeds.”
Gilbert was quiet, contemplating what Stephen had proposed. “I suppose that might mean Melmerby is also responsible for Wace’s death, although I don’t see how that could have happened.”
“You said Wace left the Pigeon suddenly after seeing something on the road.”
“Yes, I recall saying that.”
“Parfet’s company left town that morning at about that time. Wace could have seen them. He could have been promised money from the sale of the relic in addition to cancelling of his debt. The sight of Melmerby leaving might have alarmed him into thinking he had been cheated. Melmerby was a reckless man. I learned that much about him.”
“It’s all just speculation, though, isn’t it? We have no proof, and shall never see any at this point, I expect. Amusing to think about, but it gets us no nearer to the solution of any of these terrible events.”
“There is one more thing.”
“What?”
“Will Thumper said that the men who came to the tunnel that night had a shovel.”
“Ah, a shovel. You never mentioned that.”
“I had forgotten. The thought of graves and digging brought it to mind. Melmerby would have known that he couldn’t sell the relic in Ludlow. He also would have known that the army would leave soon, and he couldn’t afford to carry such a thing into Wales.”
“He didn’t go to Wales. He went to Montgomery.”
“He wouldn’t have known that’s where he would end up. Anyway, reckless as he was, I doubt he would have chanced taking it to Montgomery, either.”
“So he hid it somewhere. That’s helpful. We shall now have to scour the woods looking for holes in the ground, as if someone of his sort would leave obvious holes.”
“Maybe we don’t have that far to look.”
“I have never taken you as an optimist.”
“Finding the dark lining to every silver cloud is Harry’s forte. No, Thumper also said that his visitors went away toward the Dinham Bridge.”
“Ah, that narrows things down to only a few hundred acres or so.”
“How would you hide something in the night, expecting to come back for it before long? You wouldn’t just walk into the woods and dig a hole any old place. You’d want to put it near a landmark that would be easily remembered.”
“Whitcliff is not far away from the Dinham Bridge and it’s very hard to miss.”
“You’d stumble up there in the dark? Besides, it’s too big. You’d want something like a peculiar rock or tree . . . or the bridge itself.”
“The bridge itself?”
“The bridge is hard to miss in the dark. And you said Wace was found under the Corve Bridge. People don’t ordinarily go poking around under bridges.”
“Well, I have enjoyed your speculations, but there is a flaw.”
“Flaw? What flaw?”
“It is easily checked. I hate to leave this wonderful wake, with all this free food and drink, but your speculation cries out for refutation.” Gilbert stood up. “What are you waiting for?”
As they wended their way toward the gate, Stephen said, “You know, there is one thing about you that has always wounded me.”
“What is that?”
“You question everything I say.”
“You are so often wrong, after all. And I wouldn’t call it questioning; it is a fine and gentle guiding hand leading you away from error.”
“If I prove to be correct, you shall not do so for a full month. Agreed?”
“And if I win, you shall clean the privy.”
“You are a cruel little man.”
“I am a man soon to have a clean privy at no cost to me.”
Chapter 21
There had been talk among the town elders of building a stone bridge across the Teme at Dinham to replace the wooden one, which was in need of repair, with rotting planks along its length posing a threat to commerce, not to mention life and limb. But so far no one had been able to mount enough enthusiasm for the expense, so the bridge, gray and rickety, still spanned the river just below the Dinham mill at the same spot where it had stood for at least a century and maybe more. Perhaps no stick of wood in its construction had survived that long, as most had been replaced piecemeal as they had worn out, but it looked like nothing had changed since it had first been put up.
The bridge provided a tranquil sight as Stephen and Gilbert came around the northwest corner of the castle on the cart track connecting Linney with the mill, and they could see it through the green haze of the budding trees. The wheel creaked with the rapid flow of the high water brought on by the spring melt, and there were several carts in the mill yard as people had brought their corn for grinding to take advantage of the flow — in summer and autumn when water was low and you could see the rocks on the bottom of the river, there often wasn’t enough current to turn the mill even with much of the river diverted by weirs.
The only odd thing about the view was a curl of smoke coming from below the foot of the bridge on the town side, and as Stephen and Gilbert drew closer, some washing on a line strung between two trees.
“It seems the bridge has occupants,” Gilbert said. People living under the town’s bridges was a perennial problem. Last winter, squatters had
built a fire under the Galdeford Bridge which had set part of it ablaze. The town elders had resolved that this sort of thing should not be permitted because of the danger, but the bailiffs had not been able to stop the practice entirely. As soon as they chased one group away another took its place.
Stephen quickened his pace. “Maybe they saw something.”
“If they had, don’t you think they’d have dug it up?”
“You are questioning me again.”
“You have not yet won the bet.”
They came abreast of the mill yard and were about to turn onto Dinham Road when Stephen stopped short and stood looking at the mill.
“What is it?” Gilbert asked.
“Someone I recognize.”
“Why the odd look? You’ve lived here long enough to recognize quite a few people.”
“This is someone I had not expected to see again.”
Stephen strode through the gate. Three figures turned in his direction. “Dogface, Greg, Michael,” Stephen called to them. “It’s a surprise to run into you here.”
“We was just passing through,” Dogface said, a hand on the pommel of his sword. “Asking after a bit of bread, we was.”
“Passing through?”
“On our way to greener pastures, what with Lord Richard dead, and all. We’ve no regular employment. We thought to find a more suitable place for ourselves.”
“Lord Hugh —” Hugh de Tuberville constable of Montgomery castle “— didn’t want you to stay on? They were shorthanded at Old Montgomery, after all.”
“He had some such idea, but we didn’t relish what he proposed to pay.”
“I see. And Michael,” Stephen said, “we’ve a score yet to settle.”
“Can’t you let it go?” Dogface asked. “He’s a hot-headed lad, always losing his temper over this and that. Can’t you let bygones lie?”
“I might,” Stephen said, “but what’s he doing with that shovel?”
Michael held a shovel, which he was trying to conceal behind his back.
“You’re not planning to dig up what Melmerby stole, by any chance? Is that why you pushed him off in the tower? So you wouldn’t have to share?”
Dogface’s mouth writhed as he struggled to find a suitable reply, but what came out of his mouth was a snarl. “Get him, boys!”
“You’re sure?” Greg said, hand going to his sword.
“He knows!” Dogface snapped. “Get him, or we’re done for!”
They all drew swords. Greg and Michael raised theirs and came at Stephen, who had no sword, having left his at the inn, the wearing of swords about the town being a violation of local law. Dogface turned to the spectators in the yard to keep an eye on them so they wouldn’t interfere; a good precaution because a couple of the men were about to reach into their wagons for their quarterstaffs.
The next moments seemed to take an eternity, as if time had slowed down. Stephen backed away, since running was out of the question — they were certain to catch him if he turned his back — momentarily at a loss about what to do. It was bad enough to face two swordsmen when you had a sword yourself, but certain death when all you had was a dagger. He might have drawn his dagger and done what little he could with that, but he might give Greg and Michael some warning that he knew what to do with it against a sword; such an apprehension could make them cautious and that would be the end of him. Instead he drew off his cloak and wrapped it twice around his left arm, yet leaving a length hanging, while giving ground until he had almost reached the wicker fence surrounding the yard, trying to look as helpless as possible.
Then they were upon him.
Michael came slightly ahead of Greg, on Stephen’s left. As Michael struck a great downward blow, a rictus of effort contorting his face, Stephen took up the dangling end of his cloak with his right hand and slipped to the left. He raised the fabric overhead in the high shield and deflected Michael’s blade to his right. This caused his left hand to wrap around the blade, catching the sword in a coil of fabric, but his right hand was free and he punched Michael in the throat.
Michael went “Gawk!” and let go of the sword and staggered backward, making choking noises. He sat down hard, hands at his throat, face beginning to change hue.
Stephen’s sidestep put Michael between him and Greg. But as Michael stumbled backward, Stephen circled to use him as an obstacle for a few moments while he got hold of the sword. Now that he had a proper weapon, Stephen felt a little better about his chances as he settled into the low guard, sword by his right leg, point toward the ground, a deceptive guard that made a swordsman look vulnerable, but a guard full of menace.
Greg came on with a thrust that seemed wild and furious. Stephen set it aside with a low hanger that flowed into a downward cut at the head as he pivoted his body to the right. But Greg had anticipated this; he was not so new at swordplay after all. He parried the cut with the turned around hand, fist close to his left shoulder, knuckles up, point in the air; which put him in the perfect position for another thrust. Stephen knew it was coming, however, for this was a standard response he had practiced a thousand times, and he swept it away with his cloaked left arm.
Stephen’s parry had given him a grasp of Greg’s blade, a dangerous position for Greg, but rather than come to grips, Greg delivered a powerful front kick with his heel. If it had struck on Stephen’s stomach the fight might have been over, but fortunately it connected with Stephen’s hip, and though hard and painful, it only drove Stephen backward. He knew he could not prevent a fall, so he relaxed and took it, curling into a ball and rolling to his feet, glad there was nothing in the way.
Greg tried to take advantage of Stephen’s fall by rushing forward with a great cut to the crown of his head. Stephen managed to raise his sword in time to parry it. He responded with downward cut of his own, but rather than stand and parry, Greg stepped back out of the way.
“For God’s sake, Dog!” Greg cried. “Help me finish him! We haven’t the time to waste!”
Dogface hesitated a moment. But the threat from the bystanders had abated, two of them running up hill toward the gate shouting about the affray and the remainder content to stand about and watch without interfering. So Dogface sheathed his sword and took up one of the quarterstaffs.
This put Stephen in a very bad position. In a fight even just one-to-one the man with the quarterstaff had the advantage over a swordsman, and here there were two of them.
Stephen was about to vault the wicker fence at his back to get away when Gilbert came round one of the carts and tackled Dogface from behind. Greg, taken aback by this unexpected interference, glanced at the two now scuffling in the dirt. At that instant, Greg’s attention was not on Stephen and he attacked with a furious cut to Greg’s left ear. Greg saw it coming out of the corner of his eye and he raised his sword again in the turned-around hand to parry. But Stephen’s cut was a falsing, for he spun into a cut at Greg’s right ear before the swords had a chance to clash. Greg was not quick enough to parry this one, and Stephen’s sword cut diagonally through his head from just above the ear to the lower jaw. The top of Greg’s head came free and fell to the ground like a hat knocked off. The partly headless body stood for a moment, the lower teeth and tongue visible and moving. Then Greg collapsed.
As Stephen turned to aid Gilbert, Dogface rose to his knees and punched Gilbert in the face, knocking him flat. Dogface’s eyes swept the yard, taking in the bodies of Michael and Greg. He dashed to one of the horses, vaulted aboard, and galloped out of the yard. Stephen watched as he crossed the Dinham Bridge and continued up the road until a stand of willows by the river cut off the view.
Stephen helped Gilbert to his feet. “I wondered where you had got to.”
“Have I broken anything?” Gilbert asked, hands to his face as if assuring himself it was still there, although not all in one piece perhaps.
“I don’t think so, though you’re going to have a devil of a shiner before the day is over.”
“Oh, d
ear.”
“Let’s be glad that’s the worst we’ve suffered over this,” Stephen said, thinking with trepidation of the recriminations he would have to endure from Edith when they got back to the inn, and about how close the whole thing had been.
“Am I going to hear a thank you for my valiant effort?” Gilbert asked.
“Let’s settle our bet first.”
Stephen picked up the shovel that Michael had dropped.
“Hey,” the miller protested. “That’s mine.”
Stephen said nothing and the miller added, “Why would you need a shovel?”
“What does anyone do with shovels? To dig up something.”
“What’s going on?”
“We’re looking for something.”
The miller glanced at the sword still in Stephen’s hand. “Would you mind putting that down, sir? It makes me nervous.”
“Ah, yes, certainly,” Stephen said. He tossed the sword in the direction of Greg’s body. “Leave everything as you see it. I expect the deputy sheriff will be displeased if anything is disturbed.”
“Of course, sir. I wouldn’t think of tidying up my yard.”
“Gilbert,” Stephen said, “let’s get busy before Henle arrives to make trouble.”
Gilbert searched the far bank of the river while Stephen took the near one, but neither of them spotted what might have been evidence of a recently dug hole. Stephen even looked into the lean-to made of branches and scrap wood the people living under the bridge had erected, but still he saw no sign. Gilbert returned from his search and they stood together under the bridge, gazing at the swift flow of the river.
“Henle will be here soon,” Gilbert said, a palm over his injured eye which had begun to swell shut. “It’s a good thing he’s such a sluggard or he’d’ve been here already.”
“Lucky for us. You’ll have to keep looking when he gets here.” Stephen was about to hand Gilbert the shovel and give up the search, or at least his part of it, when a little girl in the squatter family, which had watched these proceedings warily, threw a handful of twigs on the fire to keep it going. “There is one place we haven’t looked.”