Murder at Broadstowe Manor

by Jason Vail

  “We heard north,” Harry said.

  “To Clun is my guess,” Joan said. “A friend of mine saw them riding out the Corve Street Gate.”

  “Except Lady Elysande didn’t go that way,” Harry said. “I talked to Gip and he said she went back home.”

  “How did he know it was back home?” Stephen asked.

  “Well,” Harry said, “the manor lies south, doesn’t it?”

  “It doesn’t matter,” Stephen said. “She turned up in Hereford. Accused me of killing my brother.”

  “We heard you’d been accused of that,” Joan said. “Such nonsense.”

  “Deadly nonsense, I’m afraid,” Stephen said.

  “Nobody around here believes the charge,” Joan said. “Everybody knows FitzAllan hates you.”

  “Except those who want to,” Harry said. “But there’s only a few of them. The Wattepasses’ friends, mostly. And that fellow Humbert Thame. I heard he’s been carrying on about you, saying that we’ve finally seen your true colors, stuff like that. If I was a little taller, I’d bust his lip.” Thame was grocer with a shop at the Bull Ring.

  “Ida wouldn’t allow such an accusation to stand!” Joan said.

  “That’s obviously why she was taken off to Clun,” Stephen said. “So she won’t have the chance.” It was clear that Elysande and FitzAllan had been in touch about the accusation long before his arrest. His invitation to Hereford probably had been part of the plan: to bring him to a place where he had no support so that he could be arrested and gaoled without trouble. He had hoped to find Ida here to enlist her help in refuting the charge. But Elysande and FitzAllan had thought ahead about that.

  “Don’t move back to the stable yet,” Stephen went on. “There may be things I can do in the end to set things right. But the first thing I have to do is see Walter Henle. Do you remember where we put the shovel?”

  “It’s in the back shed,” Joan said. “I’ll fetch it.”

  Stephen and Harry met Joan in the corner of the hall where Harry slept. Stephen noted that there were two pallets on the floor there rather than one. He pulled them aside without comment and started digging for his money box. He lifted it out of the hole. He opened the lid and started counting pennies onto Harry’s blanket.

  He counted out sixty shillings, which he tied up in a cloth Joan fetched from the kitchen, since he had no pouches big enough to carry such a massive sum.

  Then he returned the money box to the hole and covered it up.

  “What are you doing to do with all that money?” Harry asked.

  “See if Henle can be bought.”

  “I’ve always thought that was possible, but are you sure that’s enough? He is the greedy sort. And your back’s against the wall.”

  “I hope it’s enough. But there’s always more in the hole.”

  Walter Henle was the constable of Ludlow Castle. He had been a close friend of Percival FitzAllan, earl of Arundel, but when FitzAllan switched sides, they found themselves enemies, for Henle’s employer who held the castle, the Geneville family, were staunchly for the King. Therein lay the opportunity, or so Stephen calculated.

  Stephen walked up to the castle as fully armed as if he were going to battle. People on the High Street going about their business at the shops paused at the sight of him. There was a great deal of shocked conversation which he could not hear, and fingers pointed in amazement. But he wanted people to notice him and see that he wasn’t running away.

  The two gate wardens on duty at the main gate had long been on their feet when Stephen got there.

  “Afternoon, sir,” one of them, Randel, said. “You look splendid. What’s the occasion?”

  Stephen ignored the question. “Is Henle here?”

  “He’s at the hall. We sent a runner to the hall as soon as we saw it was you. Dinner should be over by now. I doubt he’s wandered off. You know how he likes his ale after dinner.”

  “Good. I won’t have to pry him out of the privy,” Stephen said. “Good day to you, boys.”

  “And you, sir. Good luck at whatever you’re up to.”

  Stephen crossed the outer bailey to the inner gate, conscious of the eyes of the watch on him as well as those from the barrack and stables along the outer wall.

  Four armed men of the inner watch met him at the inner gate.

  “Sorry, sir,” the sergeant in charge said. “I’ll have to ask you to surrender your weapons.”

  “Then you’ll have to take them. Where is Henle?”

  “In the hall. Please don’t put up a fight, sir. We’re ordered to arrest you.”

  “You can try to arrest me, if need be, after I’ve had words with Henle. Not before.”

  He didn’t wait for an answer. He marched past them around the round chapel to the stairs to the hall. They hurried after him, but did not attempt either to get within arms’ reach or to deprive him of his sword.

  Stephen mounted the steps and entered the hall.

  Henle was sitting in his high-backed chair behind the great table at the far end of the hall. Servants were clearing up the mess left from dinner: sweeping the floor, wiping down tables and taking them apart for stacking against the wall. Here and there people were clustered in conversation while waiting for Henle to finish his ale and for the post-dinner Sunday festivities to start. People turned to watch.

  “Good of you to receive me, Sir Walter,” Stephen said.

  “Are you looking for a fight, Attebrook?” Henle asked. His stubby fingers curled around his cup. He had a great blocky head resting upon a great blocky body that must have been formidable in his youth. But now he was pushing forty and the softer life of a castle constable and manor steward had added to his bulk, but around the waist, which was out of view below the table.

  “Only if you want to start one,” Stephen said.

  Henle eyed the sack of money in Stephen’s left hand, his non-sword hand. “Then why are you here?”

  Stephen laid the sack on the table. “To negotiate.”

  “You know that’s not how the law is enforced.”

  “Don’t take me for a child, or a peasant, Henle.”

  Henle’s fingers fidgeted on the tabletop. “It’s curious that Lady Ida abjured her honor for you after Sir William’s death. Many suspect you exerted unreasonable and unfair pressure on that poor girl.”

  “I did nothing of the kind. She is not the issue of my brother’s body. She is his step-daughter.”

  “That may be true as far as it goes, but Elysande is saying that William adopted Ida and made her his heir.”

  This was the first Stephen had heard of this. William had loved Ida like his own daughter. So, it would not have been surprising that he had made Ida his heir. But neither Elysande nor Ida had ever said anything about it. If they had, Stephen would not have asserted a claim to his home manor, Hafton.

  “What proof does she have of this?”

  “I understand she has a writ, signed and sealed by William.”

  “If she has that, why bring a murder charge, if not to invalidate my claim with a conviction? She could have more easily have brought suit instead.”

  “I don’t know. Suits cost money. You were a lawyer once. You know that better than anyone. Perhaps the charge is true. I am sure she loved him deeply.”

  “Like a pig loves the butcher.”

  “That is cruel.”

  “You know it’s true.”

  Henle shrugged. “What I know doesn’t count for much.”

  “You’re right. What you know or not doesn’t count. I came to remind you what side you’re on,” Stephen said. “I got my commission as coroner directly from the hands of Prince Edward. In these especially troubled times, he will not be pleased to learn I have been deprived of that commission by a Montfort supporter — and accused by that same man of trumped up charges of murder.”

  “What’s that got to do with me?”

  “As the King’s leading officer in this part of the county, you have as much authority
to grant me release upon surety as FitzAllan.”

  “I’m not sure about that.”

  “You are still a deputy sheriff, are you not?”

  “The last I heard. Although I’ve a feeling it won’t last long after what happened to you.”

  “In an emergency, a man does what he can to serve the King and to protect those who serve him as well.”

  “Does one?”

  Stephen untied the thong securing the cloth sack. He poured out the silver coins, and counted out a pile containing twenty shillings. “You heard, of course, that I was wanted on a charge of murder. You even thought I had been arrested. But then I presented myself to appear and answer the charge upon an offer of surety. The larger pile is for the surety. The smaller one is for your trouble.”

  “You expect me to take such a risk for a mere twenty shillings?” Henle’s fingers drummed the table. “Tell you what. You put up that fine warhorse of yours as surety. What’s he worth, twenty, thirty pounds? And I’ll take care of what lies there.”

  “Done. But I will have the surety in writing, and a copy sent with an explanatory letter to the Prince.”

  “You pay for the letter.”

  “Done again, as long as there is a receipt with the Prince’s seal.”

  Henle smiled without humor. “I can’t promise what the Prince will do, but I’ll certainly ask.”

  Stephen scooped half the money back into the cloth he had brought with him. “You can have this when I have my receipt and the copies.”

  “Just be sure to bring that delightful horse to me. Then you can have your writ.”

  ‘Of course. Tomorrow morning suit you?”

  “I doubt my scribblers can work faster than that,” Henle said with a laugh. “They are a thumb-fingered lot.”

  Chapter 13

  The problem of how to find this troupe of players had weighed on the back of Stephen’s mind, and now that he had dealt with the problem of his freedom at least temporarily, it came to the fore.

  Stephen was pondering the question as he returned to the castle gate, where Randel, the gate ward, was guarding the realm upon his stool in the passageway, spear propped against the wall beside him. He was one of the older men of the garrison, with a shoulder that drooped due to a wound suffered in fighting with the Welsh.

  “Why, sir,” Randel said, “you’re still loose. What magic did you work with Sir Walter to overcome his hatred of you?”

  Stephen checked to see if anyone was looking. He rubbed his fingers together.

  “That always works, doesn’t it?” Randel laughed.

  “Say,” Stephen said. “You wouldn’t happen to have heard about a troupe of players who recently came to town.”

  “Why, I have, sir. They came by here asking for a license to play at the castle Saturday and today, but Sir Walter refused them. Thinks they’re troublemakers and thieves. He doesn’t want to expose his guests to them. So, we sent them to the Pigeon to catch the crowd at bowls.”

  The Pigeon was an inn operated by one Herbert Jameson at the junction of Linney Lane and Corve Road below the bridge over the River Corve — an inn for a man on a budget without much to offer in terms of a bed or food but otherwise popular with the bowling crowd; it sat on the only flat ground suitable for bowls. At least the grass was mowed so the balls rolled straight and the ale was not sour.

  “Still there, you think?” Stephen asked.

  “I have no idea, sir, but it wouldn’t surprise me. Sunday is Herb’s biggest day. There’s a good bit of money to be made then, I would imagine.”

  “Your attention is requested!” Herb Jameson shouted from his place upon one of his garden tables where he had climbed to be seen and heard better. “Your attention is requested!”

  “What the devil?” said a fellow at the table over from that occupied by Stephen and Gilbert, which was under the trees lining the river to give them a good vantage point to observe everything that happened in the Pigeon’s back garden. “What does Herb want now?”

  “Perhaps it’s another price increase,” commented a companion.

  Herb shouted again. The hubbub of conversation dwindled and the bowlers hesitated in their games, except for one fellow whose cast went wide.

  “That counts,” his opponent said with a grin.

  “Does not!” the errant bowler exclaimed. “I was interfered with!”

  “Everyone!” Herb announced when he finally got almost everyone’s attention. “We have a special treat for you today — straight from that teeming city of London, the Southwark Players!”

  “Do you really think they’re from Southwark?” asked Gilbert, who had recently been all the way to Southwark and had seen no sign of players there, nor heard talk of any.

  “I doubt it,” Stephen said. “It sounds good though, eh?”

  At Herb’s introduction, a drum around the corner of the Pigeon began to beat a lively rhythm accompanied by the melodious trilling of a flute, and the players emerged, some prancing, some performing somersaults, backflips, and handstands; all of them attired in outlandish costumes of green, blue, red, except for the man banging the drum who was dressed as a friar, complete with tonsure, only that was false, a linen cap with horsehair glued to the sides.

  One of their number sprang upon Herb’s table and performed a handspring and a full somersault in the air on the other side that ended into a full split on the ground: a pretty red-haired girl, thin as a twig. She wore a tight-fitting green outfit with green wings projected from her shoulders.

  “That must be her,” Gilbert said. “Do you think she’s supposed to be an angel? I’ve never seen one with green wings.”

  “I think she’s meant to be a fairy,” Stephen said.

  The musicians circulated among the tables, playing furiously, while the acrobats continued to gyrate and dance in an intricate pattern in front of the cleared space before Herb’s table. Those who had been occupied by their bowls had by now abandoned the game, and the crowd was packed tight around that space, mouths open in amazement, the atmosphere rent by cascades of applause at this spectacular feat and that.

  Stephen was amazed that the performers could keep it up so long, for it must have been quite exhausting. But at last the display halted.

  “And now!” cried one of the players, a fellow wearing a headdress of false deer antlers, “Our very own Matilda the Flyer!”

  At this announcement, the red-haired girl bowed to the ground.

  “So, not Mary after all,” Gilbert murmured.

  “Apparently.”

  One may think Matilda was nicknamed the Flyer because of her abilities at vaulting, but that proved not to be the case. Two of the players escorted her to a ladder put up against the Pigeon as if she was a great lady. Matilda climbed to the top of the ladder, where a rope was fastened to the house stretching to one of the trees by the river. A player mounted the ladder after her, and handed up two common hoops like children rolled in the streets.

  Matilda stepped upon the rope and, slowly and tentatively, began to walk along it. The spectators fell silent. There was a gasp here and there. But no one dared to say a thing.

  Matilda got halfway, then put each arm through one of the hoops, and balancing on one foot, began to twirl the hoops around her outstretched arms.

  She started forward again, the hoops twirling, one tentative and wobbling step at a time, until at last, to the crowd’s great relief, she reached the end of the rope. She threw aside the hoops, leaped into the air — to shouts of alarm and horror as the crowded expected her to fall to earth and die — and was caught by two of the players who had positioned themselves beneath her unnoticed by anyone, since all attention was on the girl.

  The catchers set Matilda on her feet and she raised her hands to thunderous applause, shouts and whistles of approval that probably were heard as far as Bromfield.

  Meanwhile, other players circulated through the crowd with hats off to collect contributions from the amazed and grateful spectators.

&n
bsp; “Thank you so much!” called the man with the deer antlers. “If you enjoyed this performance, let me remind you that we will be performing again on market day in the High Street! Come one, come all! Bring your wives and children! You’ll see death defying feats that make Matilda’s walk pale in comparison! And our mummers will perform plays never before seen in Ludlow! Prepare to be astounded, prepared to be amazed, and prepare to be thrilled — but not if you stay home!”

  And with that, the players pranced and danced out of sight around the corner of the Pigeon to the beat of the drum and the trilling of the flute.

  Monday afternoon, Stephen climbed Broad Street to the guildhall. As was often the case, there were three town bailiffs whiling away the day on benches upon the columned porch of the hall, which was formed by the floor above jutted out from the main part of the building. They stirred themselves when Stephen arrived, and would have risen from their comfortable positions had Stephen not motioned for them to remain seated.

  “Good day to you, yer lordship,” one of the bailiffs said. “Good to see you out and about. Sorry about that trouble down in Hereford.”

  “We didn’t believe that charge when we heard of it,” another said.

  “Thanks, boys,” Stephen said. “Is Tarbent here?”

  “Oh,” said the first bailiff, “he’s here all right. It’s been a day of tantrums. So noisy!”

  “Nobody killed, though?” Stephen asked. The reference to tantrums was a sign that Tarbent had taken a cane to one of his copyists.

  “Not yet, though the day’s young.”

  “I’ll show myself in,” Stephen said, although he never expected anyone to stir from that comfortable bench.

  Stephen heard Tarbent fuming even before he opened the door.

  “Good!” Stephen said as he entered the chamber. “I found you in a good mood! The bailiffs said you had been out of sorts.”

  “They did?” Tarbent snarled. “They’re still down there?” He leaned out the window and shouted, “Get your no-good arses up and go fine somebody!” He turned back and said, “There’s enough crime around here to make the town rich, but those lazy bastards can’t be bothered to keep order.”