by Jason Vail
He had four hours of daylight left, time enough to do a lot of work, if he only knew what to do.
Then Stephen remembered something Quentin said: she had belonged to a troupe of players. These were jugglers, acrobats, mimes, puppet masters, and actors who traveled from one town to another staging performances that often took place on the bed of a wagon and the ground around it. They made their money by donations given to a member circulating through the crowd. But some also employed urchins and the unsavory to cut purses as well.
If he could find out where they went, he might catch up with this Mary and her boys.
As Stephen walked up the path along the river to the timber-and-stone gate towers on this side of the Wye Bridge, he thought about how to make this search. He had a feeling that the town bailiffs would know where the troupe had stayed, but he couldn’t ask one of them. It would require making inquiries at every inn in the city. He doubted that the players would have taken shelter at one of the inns without the gates. While the cost of lodging was less, it would have been more than made up by the tolls charged at the gates for the entry into town.
Stephen walked down Saint Martin’s Street and called at the two inns there, and learned nothing. That left those in the city proper. It meant he would have to walk about in daylight, where he could be recognized. The possibility of having to return to the gaol pit filled him with dread. But he had no choice, did he?
So he crossed the Wye Bridge, where small boys were walking on the railings to avoid wagons laden with bundles and casks from the wharf, and went up Bridge Street to its three inns to continue the search.
At the West Gate, Stephen discovered that a path ran along the base of the wall at the back edges of the rear gardens. This allowed him to reach each gate and walk up the main streets leading from them. He was able to work his way around the town to all the inns, which were by the gates for the good custom. The only one he wouldn’t be able to reach using this method was the inn at Cabosches Street and Canon Lane. But it was unlikely the troupe stayed there. That inn catered to clerks having business at Hereford cathedral or pilgrims.
Many innkeepers knew of the visiting troupe, having seen the players perform in the market. But none knew where they had lodged.
It was nearly sundown when Stephen reached Saint Owen’s Gate on the east side of town, where he had started that morning. There were two inns here, the Hare, at the corner of Grope Lane and Hungreye Street, and the Green Turtle.
Stephen stopped at the window of the Hare. A matron turned away from the bar to face him. “What can I get for you?” she asked, smoothing her apron. She was a stout woman with a friendly face who reminded Stephen of Gilbert’s wife, Edith.
“I’ll have an ale,” he said.
The matron upended a small cask over a wooden cup. “Here you go.”
Stephen gulped the contents, set the cup down, and motioned for the matron to fill it again.
“You look tired,” the matron said, as she refilled the cup. “Come far?”
“I’ve been walking all day,” Stephen said, mindful of how his bad foot was aching. He downed that cup too, and wiped a spill off his chin.
“What brings you to Hereford?” The matron frowned. “You look familiar. You been here before?”
“Once or twice.” In fact, Stephen had passed within sight of the Hare when he went out Saint Owen’s Gate that morning. “I’m looking for a troupe of players. They would have passed through here a few days ago.”
“Oh, I remember them. A rowdy bunch they were, drinking and fussing into the night after they had to leave Grope Lane, ‘cos of the curfew. The bailiffs had to come by several times on account of them.”
“They stayed here?”
“Nah. Up at the Turtle. I could hear them from my room all that way, so you can imagine the racket.”
“Do you know where they went?”
“They didn’t bother to tell me. We weren’t on good terms. I was one who summoned the bailiffs. A couple of those boys and that girl found out and came down here to complain.” She rapped on the window shutter, which was open downward to form a shelf or table a little over waist high. “She jumped onto me shutter, if you can believe that, and almost broke it off.” The matron shook her head. “I went to shove her away and she leaped off with a back flip. If I hadn’t been so pissed at them, I’d have marveled at it.”
“She is something, isn’t she?”
“You know her?”
“Not yet. But I will.”
“Why’re you interested in that lot? They steal something of yours?”
“Something like that. Thanks for the ale and conversation. You’ve been very helpful.”
The sign for the Green Turtle, a green turtle upending a cup and spilling most of it, jutted into Hungreye Street about fifty yards away where it could catch the eye of any traveler coming through the gate. It was at the corner of Castle Street.
Stephen was halfway there before he stopped. The bailiffs had marched Stephen right by it on the way to gaol. He remembered the stares he got from the patrons inside, and anyone still there, like the staff, was likely to remember him.
He dared not go any farther. He would have to get someone else to inquire about the troupe at the Green Turtle. He retreated into Grope Lane, feeling whipped, despising himself for his cowardice, and passed down its length toward Old Street.
The taverns and whorehouses were bursting in customers, the business spilling into the street, the lane filled with shouting, singing and general clamor. A dice game was going on beneath the windows of an alehouse. One player did not like the result of the throw, shoved the thrower off the blanket, and tried to seize the winnings. Daggers flashed and one of the players clouted the fellow on the head with a pommel and down he went, unconscious. The players rolled him off the blanket and resumed the game. Stephen glimpsed a whore on her knees in an alley servicing a fellow with his shirt pulled up, and watched one boy distract a man who was already drunk while another cut his purse with the deftness of a surgeon. A lad loomed before Stephen holding out a bowl, crying that he was starving and begging for aid — “Please, sir! A farthing just to tide us over till me mum gets well!” Stephen skipped around him before his partner could get a hand on his belt pouch. He spotted another lad with his wand out as if he were preparing to pee. The lad looked at Stephen with an appraising eye. Stephen gave him a wide berth. The boy swung around and peed on the feet of a merchant coming behind Stephen. The merchant cried out in anger at this violation, shaking his finger at the peeing lad and threatening the crack of doom upon him. The child pretended to cower in fear, while another lad cut the merchant’s purse from behind. Stephen probably should have done something to stop this crime, but that would have drawn attention to himself. Besides, it was rather interesting to watch such artists at work, as long as he did not become a target.
A pair of bailiffs strolled toward Stephen. He pulled down his hat, but neither bailiff paid him any attention, as they were intent on a whore bending out a window, naked breasts to the evening breeze, beckoning at a young wealthy fellow wearing an embroidered maroon cloak in the lane to sample Sodom’s offerings.
“You there!” one of the bailiffs shouted. “Cover up!”
“But not too quickly,” the other muttered, giving his friend a nudge.
“My duty is done,” the friend said, and they moved on as the wealthy young fellow stepped to the window to sample what was on display like a buyer of apples fingering the apples. The girl then withdrew. The young fellow lingered in the street for a moment, then entered the house.
Up the street, a large crowd was gathered about a platform with posts at its four corners, each of them with an oil lamp in a bowl at the top to provide illumination. Stephen was surprised to see Peg on a large, throne-like chair on the platform. Her dress was different this evening but as fine as before. She was hearing grievances from people in the crowd. At first, Stephen thought it was serious, but when he got close enough to hear what peopl
e were saying, he realized it was a farce. A fellow accused of having relations with a sheep was sentenced to drop his hose and prance about showing his naked arse while baaing like the violated sheep. Instead of doing so sullenly, as one might expect, the accused laughed, showed his bum, performed a drunken dance, and had his cup refilled. Peg tossed him a half-penny for the display. A woman then accused another man of masturbating in public. This was a popular charge and drew a thunderous laugh from the crowd. The accusation was put to a vote and this accused was convicted. Stephen drew out of earshot before he heard the sentence.
Stephen reached Olde Street and turned into it. Grope Lane’s tumult gradually subsided as he drew away.
He crossed the open space where Old Street, Bye Street and Jews Lane came together, and entered the dark maw of Jews Lane. The lane ran along the base of the city wall for a short distance and then curved left. Stephen came around the curve and at last reached Theo and Sarah’s house.
He knocked on the door. It was some time in opening. Theo stood on the threshold.
“God’s blood,” he snarled. “You’ve a nerve coming here! The whole city knows you’re on the loose!”
But instead of closing the door in Stephen’s face, Theo grasped him by the shirt as Sarah had done, and yanked him inside.
Chapter 10
“You should have flown first chance you had,” Theo fumed.
Stephen, Gilbert, Sarah and Theo were all gathered at the Tennets’ dinner table in the faint light of a fading hearth fire, the children having been sent upstairs to bed. The Tennets did not bother with candles or oil lamps to save on the expense, even though recently they had come into money. Unlike some, they were careful about where their pennies went.
Theo went on. “Someone checked the pit this afternoon. Now the whole city is on the lookout for you. What are you up to, anyway?”
“I’ve a job to do.”
“A job worth your life? A job worth my life and the lives of my family?”
“I’ll be gone this very night,” Stephen said. “I won’t trouble you any longer. But there are things yet to be done.”
“That’s a relief, though a small one.” Theo glanced sourly at Sarah. “You should never have let him in.”
“I had to,” she said. “After what he’s done for Harry.”
“Harry,” Theo muttered. “That no good layabout.”
“He’s not a layabout any longer, thanks to Sir Stephen,” Sarah shot back.
“What things?” Gilbert asked.
“We’ve a letter to find,” Stephen said.
“What kind of letter?”
Stephen explained about Montfort’s missing letter.
“Ah, that explains Lady Margaret’s interest. And why Walter instructed me to come here. You need help.”
“I do,” Stephen said. “More so now I’ve been found out.”
“How can I help?” Gilbert asked.
“A troupe of players stayed at the Green Turtle by Saint Owen’s Gate. We need to find out where they went.”
“A troupe of players?” Gilbert asked, surprised. “That’s very odd.”
“Players are always odd. Why more so now?”
“Because some of those players were found murdered just outside the city.”
And Gilbert went on to tell the story.
Michael was seven, almost old enough to work full time. He had been employed as a clod-breaker during the spring plowing, but so far he had avoided the hard work suffered by his older brothers and sisters, although he was often stuck with chores about the house like carrying water, weeding the garden, and scaring away crows. But he was already an enterprising shirker of work and knew to get out of sight early in the morning before his mother could think of something profitable to occupy his time.
He had a favorite spot where he liked to hide. It was in a small grove about two-hundred yards east of the FitzHerbert house on Frere Lane. There was a large oak here with a crook between two great limbs big enough for him to sit down in it. If anyone came by, he could not be seen from that high up.
Timmins the collie went with him. Michael was not happy about being followed at first, but then gave up trying to drive Timmins away. And after a while, he grew glad for the company.
A short distance into the little wood, he smelled an awful smell: something dead. It was a pretty strong smell, and he wasn’t sure that he would be able to stand it long, which meant there would be no hiding in the tree.
He turned away, considering where to go instead, when Timmins bounded deeper into the wood and began baying loudly.
Michael went to collect Timmins and found her lunging toward and recoiling from a piece of disturbed earth, continuing to yelp nonstop. The stench of death was strong enough to make him gag.
“Cut that out,” Michael said to the dog. “Leave it.”
But the dog did not heed his commands.
The dog began digging in the disturbed earth.
“Enough!” Michael snapped and grasped the dog by the scruff of her neck to pull her away.
But then Michael noticed a white object in the hole that dog had dug. He bent closer to see what it was, despite the smell.
It was a hand, or part of one, the fingers swollen and waxy.
Michael reached out to smooth dirt away from the hand but then thought better of it.
He ran back to Frere Lane and pelted toward Wydemarsh Street and home.
Michael told his mother about the body. At first, she looked at him squinty eyed, as if she didn’t believe him.
“Show me,” she said.
Off they went to Frere Lane, with Timmins and the last of her puppies as an escort.
“In there,” Michael said when they reached the copse.
His mother wrinkled her nose at the smell. If she doubted him before, the odor gave evidence that he was not telling tales.
She advanced into the grove.
She took one look at the hand in the hole, grasped Michael by the collar, and dragged him back to the lane.
Michael’s mother went straight to Wydemarsh Gate and told the wardens there what Michael had found.
One of the wardens ran off to the castle to fetch the coroner while another went to the hundred alderman to summon the local jury.
It took an hour for the jurymen of the hundred to show up, with still no sign of the coroner. Rather than wait any longer, since they were all working men and the delay cost them money, the jurors proceeded to the death site, followed by a considerable crowd that had gathered outside the gate at the news.
Gilbert heard the commotion in the street as he fretted away his time with a tankard of ale, waiting for Walter to show up and tell him what to do. He watched out the window of his inn as the crowd collected at the gate. People were talking excitedly about something. He heard the words body, coroner, and jurors mentioned through the hubbub. He downed the last of his ale, which was quite good and sweet and very fresh. Then he went out to see what the fuss was about.
It did not take long for Gilbert to piece together from random comments what the jurors faced.
The mass flowed around the corner of the lane, which at the Wydemarsh end was called Hospital Lane, and continued past the FitzHerbert manor house, where the lane’s named changed.
Gilbert paused at the manor house because an odd sight caught his eye. There was a large, blue-painted wagon in the yard and four rough-looking men were struggling to unload a fellow on a stretcher from the back. The man was big and massively muscled. He had auburn almost red hair, with a jutting chin. He wore a tailored green coat, but the rest of him was concealed by a linen sheet, except for a red-stocking foot that had a splint at the ankle. Lady Isabel and Lady Madeline fussed over him as the servants lifted the stretcher from the bed of the wagon, and carried him into the house.
A striking, richly dressed woman, in a maroon gown a riot of golden embroidery with blue silk sleeves on her under gown watched the cortege approach from the doorway to the house. She had to be in
her late thirties, and so beautiful that Gilbert halted in the road to take in the vision: pointed chin emphasized by the veil about her head and neck, graceful hands clasp but then one rising in a wave.
Then she noticed Gilbert staring and flinty hardness replaced the pleasure as she backed into the house.
Gilbert wondered what to make of it as he hurried to catch up with the crowd, which had almost reached the grove.
The crowd went in after Michael, his mother, and the jury, nearly packing it to the full. Gilbert had to worm his way through the press to the edge of it, where a ring had formed about a hastily dug grave, no mean feat for a portly man who had trouble conducting worming of any kind.
One of the jurors had brought a hoe and a shovel, and two jurors got to work uncovering the body. It was not buried very deeply; only a few inches of soil had been thrown upon it. When it had been uncovered, two jurors put on gloves and pulled the body from the grave. The smell was so foul that many people held the hems of their shirts or gowns over their noses.
But the big surprise was that beneath this body was another.
The jurymen laid the bodies side-by-side and brushed the dirt from the faces.
“Anyone know them?” the chief juryman asked.
“I seen ‘em,” said a man a couple of rows in. He was tall and could see over the heads of those in front of him. “They’re some of those players, the ones at the market these past few days.”
Many in the crowd called their agreement, recognizing them now, even though their features were distorted with the decay of death.
“And they were men?” Stephen asked when Gilbert got to this point in his story.
“That’s right,” Gilbert said. “Why?”
“No woman?” Stephen asked.