by Jason Vail
“Yeah, I recollect something like that. It was right on top. A pair of them, in fact.”
“Did you take them, too?”
“Nah, I wasn’t interested in no letters.”
“So, why was it necessary to kill them?”
“Kill who?”
“Martin and FitzHerbert.”
Matilda’s mouth opened in surprise. “They’re dead?”
“Martin was found strangled in bed and FitzHerbert an apparent suicide. But I don’t think it was suicide.”
“They were alive when I left them, snoring like babies.”
“You believe her, then,” Gilbert said, doubt in his voice. His eyes were sunken holes due to the shadows cast by the single low candle on Stephen’s favorite table in the Broken Shield.
“It’s always a mistake to trust a woman,” Harry said. “She’ll lead you astray for the fun of it.” He said this with a smile and a glance at Joan. “Ain’t that right, my dear?”
“I do expect you to do as you’re told,” Joan said. “Sometimes a little white lie is necessary for that purpose.”
“I do believe her, I think,” Stephen said. He puffed at the flame to make it dance. “Her story is easily checked. Besides, if Matilda got any money from the robbery, she’d have had no need to attack me.”
“What,” Harry said, “you’re just going to walk up to Squinty Peg and say, and oh, about that robbery at the FitzHerbert house, did you have a hand in that? And what about those two murders after? How long do you think you’ll last if you do that?”
“About two heart beats,” Gilbert said. “Then her boys will fall on you, truss you up, and deliver you to FitzAllan. I doubt he’ll be much concerned about your pledge of surety.”
“What else can I do?” Stephen asked. “This path is a dead end.”
“Looks like I’ll have to do it,” Harry said. “There’s too much chance that Stephen will be recognized. And either of you will just muck it up, anyway.”
“You!” Joan exclaimed.
“Sure,” Harry said. “I know Grope Lane. Been there more than once. Know Peg as well from years back. No one will think a thing if I thump through there with my ear to the ground.”
“Well, you’re not going alone,” Joan said. “You can no more protect yourself if things go wrong than a puppy.”
“I don’t know about that,” Stephen said, remembering a night last year when Harry had killed a man who had come to assassinate Stephen in Gilbert’s stable. “He’s a man of surprises.”
“Nonetheless, he isn’t going alone,” Joan declared.
“It’s a good idea not to argue with her,” Harry said. “You’ll just lose. Pretend as if it’s your idea. That’s what I intend to do. My dear, I could use your help on this perilous mission. Would you care to assist me?”
“Good boy,” Joan said, patting Harry on the head.
“See?” Harry asked the others. “She is damp clay in my hands.”
Chapter 15
Getting Harry to Hereford took much of the following day. The last time he made the journey, he had gone tied to a saddle, but now he had a cart of his own. However, the pony pulling the cart couldn’t keep up with the Stephen’s horse and Gilbert’s mule for long at a trot. Stephen chaffed at the delay, but it couldn’t be helped.
It was late afternoon when they turned into the yard at the Trumpet Inn. It was a finely made building with timbers freshly painted blue and the whitewash between them scrubbed of mold so that the walls fairly shone. Harry had seen it from the road but never from the inside, for it was too expensive an establishment for the likes of him, even when he had had his legs, since he had been a farmer and day laborer who had done any odd job someone would pay for. He would like to enjoy its comforts, but perhaps he’d have the opportunity that night.
“Joan,” he said, “fetch my rags.”
“They’re right beside you,” Joan said, rising on the bed of the cart to get the kinks out of her legs. She then hopped down.
Harry dug into the linen satchel that had rested behind them in the cart and fished for his rags. Since he had become a man of means and left the vocation of beggar behind, he had bought a new shirt, coat and stockings, which he had tailored to the length of his stumps. A good suit of clothes was something to be savored, for clothes were the mark of a man. He regretted that he would have to put on his rags again. Yet it was a good thing he had saved them — he had done that because he had not been confident that his new-found affluence would last. And perhaps it would fail yet. Fate was fickle and cruel.
He threw the blanket they had brought over his head, and struggled out of his good clothes and into his shabby ones beneath its cover.
“Ah, so handsome,” Gilbert said, when Harry shed his blanket. “The Harry we knew and disapproved of has not entirely disappeared.”
Harry mussed his hair, crossed his eyes, and stuck out his tongue.
Stephen leaned over the railing to try and catch the tongue. Harry batted the reaching hand away.
“You’ll need quite a bit of dirt as well,” Stephen said. “Dirt used to follow him like a cloud,” Stephen added for Joan’s benefit.
“Pay no attention to this slander,” Harry said. “Let’s be off to Grope Lane while there’s still daylight.”
Joan grasped the pony’s bridle and led the cart into the street.
“That way,” Harry said, gesturing toward Wydemarsh Gate as he clutched the blanket about himself to conceal his rags.
“I know that way,” Joan said. “I’m not stupid.”
“Just making sure. I don’t want to get lost.”
They had to pay a toll to get in, of course, and it was higher than if they had been on foot, owing to the pony and cart, which were charged extra.
One of the gate wards looked over Harry, who clutched the blanket about himself, and asked, “What’s the matter with him? I hope he don’t got the plague or something.”
“Just a fever,” Joan said, as if it was nothing of consequence.”
But the ward backed up anyway and made Joan put the coins for the toll on his stool.
“Off you go,” the ward said and motioned them to pass.
“I wish I could give him a sickness,” Harry said darkly. “So rude.”
“Oh, hush. You’re lucky he let us in at all, what with suspecting you’re sick.”
Watching through a gap in the blanket, Harry directed Joan where to go, since she had never been to Hereford. They took the first left onto Malieres Street, which further on became Jews Street. Harry’s sister’s house came up on the right, and he almost called out for Joan to stop. He had visited here in the spring, and had probably worn out his welcome then, but he still yearned to stop. She had not been his favorite sister, but they had got on better when they were both grown. The temptation to linger would have been too great, so he said nothing to Joan as they went by the house and the street met the wall to curve around to Bye Street at the gate.
“Where to?” Joan asked, for Bye Street and another one, Olde Street, met at a wide place before the gate.
“Pass over Bye Street and turn right on the next one,” Harry said. “Grope Lane is the first left up ahead just before the market.”
At long last, they reached Grope Lane.
“You can stop here,” Harry said, when they were three houses from the corner. He threw off the blanket and tossed his begging platform, a board of planks nailed to two rockers, out of the back of the cart.
“What are you doing?” Joan asked.
“I’m getting out.”
“Why? We’re almost there.”
Harry pulled on his heavy leather gloves which protected his fists as he propelled himself along on the board. “I’m going on alone.”
“No, you aren’t.”
Harry grasped Joan’s arm and pulled her to her knees. He was so strong that she could not resist, even though she had enough wiry strength to defy most men.
“There are really bad people in there,”
he said. “Grope Lane is no place for a pretty young woman like you. If you have no one to protect you, there’s every chance you’ll be taken and ill used. And you know what that’s like.”
“I can protect myself.”
“You may think so, but I will not take the chance. I don’t want the failure to be on my conscience.”
“What if something happens to you?”
“It well could, but it’s less likely it will be fatal. I’ll just get robbed.”
“You’re making a mistake.”
“No, I’m not, and you know it.”
Harry finished buckling himself onto his board, and swung toward the corner with seemingly easy strokes of his massive arms. He had been strong before his accident, but the need to get around using only his arms and shoulders had given him great ones.
“Go back to the inn,” he said over his shoulder. “Come back at sundown and fetch me here.”
Grope Lane had not changed. The houses were as dingy as Harry remembered, the paint and plaster flaking off, laundry hanging from the upper windows, the street rutted and full of holes which were troublesome in daylight and a trap at night. The stone piss tank on the corner was overflowing into the dirt as usual. A mangy dog snarled at him from a doorstep. A whore in an upstairs window spotted him, pointed, and said something to a person behind her: another whore who came to the window. They hooted at him, as people often did when they first saw Harry. A black cat dashed across the street from one narrow gap between the houses to another. People stopped to make the sign of the Cross, for black cats were unlucky. Someone batted Harry on the back of the head as he went by: a couple of boys who danced about shouting insults at him. Harry ignored them and kept going. After a time, the boys got bored and went away.
Harry thumped along as best he could, pausing now and then to hold out his begging bowl and cry for alms. No one stopped to give charity, but that was not unusual. He often went for hours without earning anything. Begging was hard work and required persistence and perseverance.
He got about a third of the way down, where a lane ran north between two houses to an orchard. He swung to the side across the street from Squinty Peg’s house, which stood by the lane, or what had been her house. Harry wondered if it still was. He got off the board, stripped off his gloves, and went to work proper, calling out to every passerby.
It wasn’t long before a bailiff and a tough-looking stocky man of about twenty with bad pimple scars on his cheeks and a blue cloth cap stopped before him.
“What’re you think you’re doing here?” asked the man in the cloth cap.
“What does it look like, you dumb shit?” Harry responded. “I’m working the street.”
The man in the blue cap bent down to grasp Harry’s collar, but Harry got hold of him first. The man in the blue cap was strong, but Harry was far stronger.
“What the —” cried the man in the blue cap as Harry released him.
“Don’t get rough with me, Snotty,” Harry said, remembering the man’s nickname from years before when he was a day laborer and before he got his farm, which he had lost along with his wife and children after the accident that cost him his legs. “You’ll just get hurt.”
The bailiff, who had observed this without expression, asked, “You got a license?”
“Sure do,” Harry said. He pulled the vellum from where it had been under his belt.
The bailiff examined the license. “Looks in order,” he said to Snotty.
“Well, no one’s allowed on the lane without mum’s permission,” Snotty said. “And he ain’t got it.”
“That’s between him and her,” the bailiff said, returning the beggar’s license, which Harry had acquired during his spring visit. “I got nothing further to do with it.”
“Yer paid to!”
“I’m thirsty,” the bailiff said. He turned away and strolled off.
“So what you gonna do now, Snotty?” Harry asked. “Call out your brothers to do the work you’re not man enough to do yourself? It will take the lot of them, even though I’m not the man I used to be.”
Snotty was so furious by now that his mouth worked but he was unable to produce more than grunts and babble, spittle flying from his lips. And the end, he could not contain his fury. He kicked at Harry’s head. But Harry caught the foot and, pressing down on the knee, dropped Snotty hard on his back.
“How’s yer mum doing, by the way?” Harry asked as Snotty climbed to his feet, fuming. “It’s been a long time since I’ve seen her.”
“You know mum?” Snotty asked, suspiciously.
“Course. You remember, I had a bit of business with her now and then. Maybe she’ll come out and have a chat for old time’s sake. I know something she might like to hear.”
“What the fuck could you possibly know that she might be interested in?”
“It’s about that business last week at the FitzHerbert house.”
“What business?” Snotty asked but not in a way that was convincing of his ignorance.
“Come on, Snotty, the thing involving that girl player. I bet you were in on it, not that I care any. Have a go. Tell Squinty that Harry from Richard’s Castle is outside.”
At the mention of the girl player, Snotty grew visibly alarmed. “You’re Harry?”
“What’s left of me.”
“Don’t look like you at all.”
“Well, what’s it been, twelve, fifteen years? You were a little tike last I saw you, running wild and cutting people’s purses.”
“All right. Don’t run away, now.” Snotty chuckled at his joke and went into the house across the street.
Some time passed before Squinty Peg appeared in the doorway. She strode across the road, cane in hand, a fashion item that she carried even when Harry had known her, although it was more weapon than means of support.
“You don’t look like the Harry I knew,” Squinty said when she stood over him.
“I was taller then,” Harry said. “And better dressed.”
Squinty bent down and took Harry’s chin in her hand. She turned his head right and left. She let go and stood up. “You seem to be him, all right. What’s Theo up to these days?”
“Don’t know. Came straight here.”
“About that. We heard you were begging up in Ludlow. It’s a long way from here. What could bring you so far?”
“You might want to hear this, quiet like. Not on the street where anyone might hear.”
“Good idea.”
Squinty marched back to her house.
“So,” Squinty asked then they were seated at her hall table, “how did you get here? It’s a long way to crawl.”
“I have a girlfriend,” Harry said. “She has a cart.”
“You!” Snotty scoffed. “With a girl!”
“My wand is longer than my legs. It’s the envy of Ludlow. The girls fight over it.”
Squinty laughed. “That’s the Harry I remember. So, tell me what brought you here.”
“An overheard conversation.”
“Go on.”
“I have my little hideaway, see, a stall in the stable of this inn. The owner rents to me. A troupe of players came to town last Friday. I heard them talking in the stable early Saturday while I was savoring the dawn in my stall. Your name came up.”
“Not in a friendly way, I am assuming.”
“No, not at all. Seems this girl and a couple of others had a spot of trouble involving you and some sort of robbery at some rich man’s house.”
“Go on.”
“Well, I didn’t get all of the details, ‘cause they talked so low. Seems they were put up to the robbery by you, and once they pulled it off, you had two of the lads killed and took all the money. The girl got away. She was sweet on one of the lads, a fellow named Bill, and was furious you’d knifed him.”
“So?”
“This Bill was from London. His brother is high up in one of the gangs there. She swore she’d tell the brother and have him send someone to kill y
ou. You know how it is, you can’t let such a harm to family pass unavenged.”
Squinty stroked her chin. “No, you can’t.”
“There is one other thing,” Harry said.
“What?” asked Squinty.
“There’s this fellow in Ludlow, used to be the coroner there.”
“Attebrook.” She smiled. “Got arrested for murder, and somehow escaped from the castle gaol. No one can figure out how he managed it, but I think it had to be an inside job. Your brother, Theo, have anything to do with it? He works at the castle.”
“Theo’s gone straight as an arrow since he married Sarah. You know that.”
“I’m not so sure. I keep hearing things. So, what’s Attebrook have to do with any of this?”
“The rich man’s steward hired him to find a letter that went missing the day of the robbery. I’m sure he’ll pay a lot of money to get it back.”
“Who, the steward or Attebrook?”
“Either one, I’ll bet, although I think you’re going to have trouble finding Attebrook. You don’t happen to know where the letter is?”
“No, regrettably I don’t. What’s in this letter?”
“I’m not sure. But it’s got to be important.”
“How do you know about it?”
“The innkeeper’s his assistant.”
“I suppose you expect to be paid for this.”
“Come on, Squinty. Knowing you’ve got to watch your back from now on has to be worth something.”
Squinty was quiet for a long time. At last she said, “I suppose it is, my friend.”
She produced three pennies from her purse. “That should do it, don’t you think?”
Three full pennies were three days’ wages for the working man and could buy a gallon of wine, if Harry had been inclined in that direction. In the relative scheme of things, it was decent payment for his work.
Harry plucked up the pennies. “Thanks, Squinty. Nice doing business with you.”
“Take care of yourself, Harry.”
There was no point in lingering in Grope Lane, so Harry dragged himself back to the corner. Two hours of daylight remained, and the market to the left by Saint Peter’s Church was still underway, although it had to be winding down. Still, the chance of making a little more money should not be wasted. So, Harry clumped down as far as he dared on Olde Street. He did not go into the market proper, but stayed just beyond its periphery. Begging markets required a special license, which he did not have.