Murder at Broadstowe Manor

by Jason Vail

  “That’s been suggested,” Stephen said.

  “You don’t believe it?”

  “It’s too early to believe anything.”

  The guard who had done most of the talking shook his head. “Sir Rogier may have been a bit odd, you know, but he was a decent sort. Never rude or nasty to us, not like some of the snooty-nosed are, begging your pardon, sir. Nick says he always tipped well when he left the city.”

  “Sir Rogier had a habit of leaving town after curfew?”

  “He weren’t the only one, as you probably know yourself, but yes.”

  “Any idea what Sir Rogier was doing in the town so late?” Stephen asked.

  “You’ll have to ask Nick that,” the talkative guard said.

  “He never let on?”

  “Not a peep.”

  “So, where is Nick?”

  “He’s got a house on Grope Lane. You might find him there. Do you know where that is, sir?”

  “I’m familiar with Grope Lane.”

  “Why are you asking, sir? Is there some doubt about what happened to Sir Rogier?”

  “No, I am just tying up some loose ends.”

  “Ah, something to do with his secret life, eh, sir?”

  “Thanks, boys, and good day.”

  “Well, Grope Lane,” Gilbert said. “At last I shall have the opportunity to see our local Sodom and Gomorrah.”

  “Gilbert,” Stephen said, astonished. “I had not taken you for a lascivious man.”

  “I am not. But all my life I have heard of this place. At last, in my autumn years, I’ll have the chance to see it.”

  Stephen strode on a bit down Wydemarsh Street toward the second marketplace where the high cross stood, which was visible in the distance. “Be prepared to be disappointed. It isn’t much. Just a collection of shady inns and taverns overrun with gamblers, whores, and cutpurses. You’ve seen the like in London only on a grander scale.”

  “Oh. Well, then, you don’t have to worry about protecting me from vice there, since I was able to resist London.”

  “No one gave you the chance to indulge in London. We were too busy. But if you insist, I will turn my back so that I don’t have to witness your fall from grace and then have to lie about it to Edith.”

  “I am not contemplating any fall from grace, such as I enjoy. It’s a mere professional interest. Harry will want to know, surely.”

  “Ah, it’s for Harry. How thoughtful.”

  They turned the corner. Ahead was the guild hall, where the town clerks could observe activities in the market and catch those who had not paid their tolls, and over top of it the spire of Saint Peter’s Church could be seen. Coken Row was a pretty sight off to the left of the guildhall, a narrow lane of timber-and-whitewashed houses, which the residents were required to keep looking bright and clean as this was part of the city market, and Stephen would have admired it more if it had not been for another sight.

  Coming his way with a grim, yet satisfied expression on his face that filled Stephen with foreboding, was Percival FitzAllan. A squad of halberd-armed deputies marched behind him.

  “There you are!” FitzAllan said with relish as he and Stephen met. FitzAllan waved a hand. “Take him!”

  The deputies rushed around FitzAllan and surrounded Stephen. Gilbert stumbled backward, pushed out of the way. The deputies seized Stephen by the arms.

  “What is this?” Stephen demanded.

  “You are under arrest for the murder of William Attebrook,” FitzAllan declared.

  Chapter 6

  FitzAllan’s presence frightened Gilbert by itself, but to have the sheriff level an accusation of murder filled him with terror. And with good reason. Gilbert had been there when William Attebrook died boarding a Portuguese slave ship, and if Stephen was accused of causing that death, there was plenty of room to include Gilbert in the indictment if FitzAllan felt like it.

  FitzAllan was too busy savoring his satisfaction at Stephen’s arrest to notice that Gilbert was here. This enabled Gilbert to edge behind a cart filled with rubbish collected from the streets. The stench was choking. Gilbert gasped and put the end of his sleeve over his mouth. He bent down as if to tie his shoe, which took him out of sight of the sheriff and the deputies.

  “Murder, is it?” Stephen asked. “Who brings this charge?”

  “Sir William’s widow,” FitzAllan said.

  “What does Elysande know of such things? She wasn’t there when William died.”

  “She has a witness, one who was there.”

  “That would be Herb, I imagine. If he said that he lies.” Herb was a servant at Hafton Manor, which Stephen inherited upon William’s death. Herb had been there when William died in the attack on the Portuguese ship. But it had not been murder. William had been first up the ladder to the ship’s deck and had been knocked off, disappearing into the dark Thames before anyone could catch him.

  “It is what he said that counts, not whether it is the truth. Bring him!” FitzAllan marched toward the castle.

  “I have a right to offer surety to ensure my answer to this charge!” Stephen said.

  “Going lawyer on me, eh?” FitzAllan said. “I’ll not debate trivial technicalities with you. You’ll rot in gaol until the King’s justice has time for you.”

  “It could be months before he comes here again!”

  FitzAllan chuckled. “I am sure that’s true. How unfortunate.”

  “You have no right to hold me, especially when I offer surety.”

  “Rights? You have only the rights I give you. I’m the sheriff. I’m the law in this county. It’s my word that counts. Come, boys, let us not tarry!”

  Every castle has its gaol. They varied according to the taste and needs of the constable. Some were former pig sties; others were mere stalls in barns. Still others were holes in the ground covered with boards, which had a habit of filling with water when it rained, often drowning the guests.

  Hereford’s gaol was more elaborate than these. It lay in the center of the dirt floor of the basement of the right hand gate tower, marked by planks set into the dirt with a trap door in the middle. At least, having benefit of a roof, it was not likely to fill with rain water.

  The deputies threw up the trap door and pushed Stephen into the dark space beneath.

  Stephen expected a long fall, but the gaol pit proved to be shallow: only four feet or so, to a stone floor.

  The deputies tossed in a bucket which struck Stephen’s shoulder.

  “Mind you shit in that,” one of the deputies instructed. “Don’t want to stink up the place more than we have to. The constable likes his castle kept clean.”

  They dropped the trap door and slammed the bolt.

  Stephen sat down and examined his new lodgings. There was enough light through cracks in the boards above his head to see after his eyes had time to adjust. He was in a circular pit walled in stone. He might be able to dig his way out, but it would take time and lots of effort. But he had time, likely plenty of it.

  Using his belt buckle, he began scraping at the mortar between the cracks in two stones.

  At the same moment that FitzAllan and the deputies marched off toward the castle, the workers manning the rubbish cart came away from the window of a nearby tavern where they had been enjoying a pitcher of ale, collected the cart and drew it off, leaving Gilbert crouched in the street. Gilbert looked about for other places to hide in case the officers happened to glance back. There was nothing close but a big stone trough used for public pissing, and Gilbert would have had to lie down behind it to avoid being seen. This would not do.

  But the officers marched with such energy and authority that Gilbert quickly apprehended that no one would look back. He rose to his feet. As immediate danger withdrew, the panic welling in his mind subsided. What to do now?

  His first thought was to flee up Wydemarsh Street and keep going until he reached home. He even turned in that direction. Then he stopped. If Elysande Attebrook was going to accuse Stephen, s
he’d have cast a wide net and named everyone involved, which necessarily included him. Thus, he reasoned, if he had not been arrested now, he had not been accused, and if he had not been accused now, he probably would not be. She was after Hafton Manor, and to get it she needed only to bring Stephen down. If Gilbert came into it, it would be as a witness, with the rack, hot irons, the smokebox, and thumbscrews to encourage favorable testimony.

  Moreover, if he ran, he’d leave behind valuable property at the castle: the least of which was his spare clothing, a saddle and tack, Stephen’s horse, and his mule. Property was hard to come by, and a man couldn’t simply cast it away. His wife, Edith, would have his ear off before she sent him into hiding, and if he feared anyone’s rage, it was hers.

  So, with much trepidation and fretting, Gilbert followed FitzAllan’s entourage back to the castle.

  The main gate opened upon a lane between a row of houses on a street aptly named Castle Street. The gate sat across a wooden bridge over a water-filled moat, deeply recessed in two drum-shaped towers that were so tall it was a wonder they were not lost in low clouds. The walls of the castle, which sat on high earthen embankments, were made of white-plastered stone, the same as the towers, and at least twenty, perhaps even thirty feet tall, the whole a testimony to the power and wealth of the man who had built it, the King of England.

  Gilbert drew a deep breath, crossed the bridge and went under the gate passage. Just any old body was not allowed in, and Gilbert expected to be challenged for an explanation for his right of entry. But one of the gate wardens nodded, a sign of recognition. And Gilbert got through.

  As he left the gate’s massive, iron-studded doors in his wake, he saw FitzAllan and several of the deputies heading off through the tents of people who had come for the assembly toward the great hall on the other side of the bailey. The door to the ground floor of the northern tower was open and Gilbert heard voiced within, one of them Stephen’s. This must be the gaol.

  “Good,” he said to himself. “All I have to do is pick the lock and we can both be away.” But of course that was not going to happen. He knew nothing about the picking of locks and the manner of being away — escaping from a castle sealed for the night — was beyond his talents.

  A familiar voice murmured in his ear, “Come away, Gilbert. Someone will notice your interest.”

  Gilbert nearly jumped out of his coat. “Walter! You gave me such a shock!”

  Walter, one of Lady Margaret de Thottenham’s retainers, a thick-set soldierly man with a rugged face like a piece of wind-weathered rock, grasped his sleeve and led him away through the tents some distance before they came upon a campfire with benches around it. Walter sat on one of the benches and drew Gilbert down beside him.

  “What am I to do, Walter?” Gilbert lamented. “What am I to do? I was there! I saw it all!”

  “The first thing you do is keep your voice down. The second thing you do is not mention a word of that death or your part in it to anyone.”

  “That is easy on my part, but there are others who know. Herbert of Hafton Manor, for instance.” Gilbert had a fuzzy recollection of having heard Herb’s name mentioned at the time of Sir Stephen’s arrest.

  “Yes, Herb, we heard about him. He’s the one giving evidence against Sir Stephen. But he hasn’t mentioned you.”

  “He’s here?” Gilbert asked, voice rising despite his efforts to keep it under control.

  “Yes, and a prisoner himself. And likely to remain so.”

  “Oh, dear! Oh, dear!”

  “I don’t think he’s giving his testimony voluntarily, if you know what I mean.” Walter cocked an eye at Gilbert as if to say, you could be in the same boat if word got out.

  “I have thought of that already. Oh, yes!” Gilbert’s panting began to slacken, though. He closed his eyes and breathed deeply. He began to feel calmer, but only just. “What now?”

  “Collect your things and Sir Stephen’s. There is an inn on the Wydemarsh Road without the gate, the Trumpet, it’s called. Wait there until you hear from me.”

  The work went on until it was too dark to see, pausing now and then when Stephen heard voices above, people who might be close enough to detect the scraping. He hoped for someone to come with a crust of moldy bread and brackish water, but night fell without any such courtesy.

  He sat with his back to a wall, for the floor stones were hard and unforgiving, not conducive to sleep. Plans for revenge against Elysande bumbled through his head, but they were nothing more than entertainment. He would realize none of them. He hoped Gilbert had got away. But even if he had, Gilbert would be dragged into the affair and ruined if not killed eventually. Gilbert was the only other witness, and he could not be allowed to talk. Stephen drifted off to sleep at last.

  The day brought no more food or water than the night had done, and Stephen was so thirsty by the end of it that he considered drinking his own piss. He had never done this himself, but he remembered a story from a friend in Spain about an acquaintance who had fallen from his horse in the arid lands and broken a leg, dying when he could no longer resist the urge to drink is urine. It was a bad thing. Or so he had been told.

  At nightfall, he heard the loud sounds of merriment above in what had to be the guardroom, where the tower wardens ate and slept so the main gate would never be undefended. As time went on, the volume of voices and laughter increased, an indication that they were getting very drunk.

  Stephen expected the amusements to carry on late into the night, but after about an hour, things settled down. He supposed that the gate captain had put a squash on the merriment, for someone of the company had to remain at least relatively sober if duty was to be done.

  Then the bolt rattled and the trap door drew up.

  “Good God!” a familiar voice whispered. “What a fucking stink! Come on! What are you waiting for? Me to come in and carry your sorry arse out?”

  “Hello, Walter,” Stephen said as he lifted himself through the door and stood up. “I am surprised to see you.”

  “This is the last time I spring you from gaol,” said Walter, carefully lowering the door and slipping the bolt into place. He glanced up at the floor above where the drinking had taken place. “It’s too dangerous a pastime. Come on, before any of them wake up.”

  The door to the tower basement opened into the bailey. They slipped out and stood quietly for a moment, searching for the location of the watch. Soft padding and scraping in the distance on either side enabled them to locate the wardens walking the wall.

  When the watch seemed to be heading away, Walter set off across the bailey, his arm over Stephen’s shoulders as if they had consumed a bit more than was prudent.

  The last time Stephen had seen the bailey, it had been filled with the tents of those who had come for the assembly, but many of them were gone now. So they were able to make their way straight across without meeting anyone.

  Walter’s objective was the great barn on the wall along the river. The door was open a crack and they slipped inside. Above Stephen’s head in the loft, a woman laughed softly and a man’s voice murmured in response. There was some rustling to the left as well. The lowest servants at a castle often slept in the barn, so he was not surprised to find people here, but he had no idea why Walter had led him here.

  Walter handed Stephen a clay pot which he had carried in a cloth satchel. Stephen drank from it: it was cool, clean water. He gulped the entire contents. He handed Walter the pot and received a large chunk of cheese, which Stephen made disappear with only a few ravenous bites.

  “You could try chewing with a bit less noise, sir,” Walter whispered.

  “Sorry. Old habit when I’m starving.”

  Walter took Stephen’s arm and steered him along the wall until they came to an unhitched cart. “There is a barrel waiting for you. Make yourself comfortable in it.”

  “Now?” Stephen asked.

  “Yes. You don’t want to chance being discovered in the morning if you sleep on the grou
nd.”

  “I hope it is a comfortable barrel,” Stephen said, setting a foot on the deck of the cart while Walter steadied it.

  “I’m sorry, we didn’t have the time to get one of those,” Walter said as he pressed Stephen’s head down and settled the barrel’s top into place. “Sleep tight.”

  It was impossible, of course, to sleep in the barrel. It wasn’t long before it grew uncomfortable, his knees drawn up to his chin, and then painful. Stephen almost wished for the gaol pit. At least he could stretch out there. But he endured it, as he had to do. There was no other choice.

  After many hours of this torment, Stephen heard others stirring in the barn. Birds chirped and a cock crowed nearby, officially signaling the arrival of the dawn.

  People went out to the privy and to start the day’s work, while others came in to fetch supplies for the kitchen.

  After another agonizing hour, Stephen felt the cart tilt, which caused his heart to leap as he imagined the barrel tumbling off until he realized that someone was hitching a horse to it.

  The cart started forward with a jolt and left the barn. It made jolting progress across the bailey and continued jolting along for a long time, years probably.

  At last, the jolting stopped and someone rapped on the lid of the barrel.

  “Wake up, dearie,” a woman said. “We’re here.”

  “It’s impossible to sleep the way you drive that cart.” Stephen lifted the lid to find out where here was. It was the inside of another barn, although much smaller than the one in the castle.

  A young woman dressed in a churl’s brown gown and cloak, which was frayed at the cuffs and hems from long use, stood above him.

  “Don’t like me driving, eh? I’m sure you’d have preferred to walk then. Come on, dearie,” she said. “You can’t spend all day in there. I’ve got deliveries to make.”

  “Right, sorry,” Stephen said, standing with some difficulty. “Do I owe you anything for the ride?”