by Jason Vail
Stephen nodded. “Least ways, Squinty and I are good friends now.”
“Squinty has no friends. She only has interests.”
“Hmm. Reminds me of a sheriff I know.”
Harry chuckled. “It’s about time he turned his coat again. Care to make a wager on how long it is before FitzAllan runs back to the King begging for forgiveness?”
“More likely, he’s waiting to see how big the bribe will be to get him back.”
“You think that’s likely?”
“They need him more than he needs them.”
“I never thought about a King needing somebody.”
“A King rules only as long as people are willing to obey him. We’re looking now at what happens when many people don’t.”
“You’d think our good King would realize that he needs to be more generous.”
“The problem is that he’s been generous to a few and that provoked the resentment of the many.”
Stephen stood up and gave Harry back the cup. “I’m going to turn in.”
“It’s not even sundown. Did the ale make you ill?”
“No, it could poison an ox, but I want to get some sleep. I’m going into town tonight.”
“After sundown?”
“Precisely. Wake me when you come to bed.”
“What are you going to do, jump over the wall?”
“Not quite.”
“But why? You’ll just get caught. You don’t think for a moment that FitzAllan is going to honor that safe conduct you’ve got, do you?”
“He probably wouldn’t. But I’ve had an idea. It’s all I can think to do.”
Harry and Joan woke Stephen as twilight faded.
The rain had stopped and the clouds were broken, revealing a crescent moon low on the horizon from time to time. Stephen went behind the barn and changed into his ratty old peasant clothes. He loved moons like that, just a slit and the remainder of the disk visible as a faint circle in the dimming sky, a few stars already twinkling. He wondered if the moon was as flat as the earth.
Gilbert met Stephen at the corner of the barn. He handed Stephen a butt of bread and ham wrapped in a cloth. “I saved supper for you.”
“Thanks. I’m starving.”
“Harry said you’ve going into town.”
“Yes.”
“How are we getting in?”
Stephen smiled, mouth full of ham. “We? You want to come? You’ll see.”
Stephen groped beneath the surface of the stream for the first stepping stone. Finding it, he set his bad foot upon the top of the stone. The foot found the water refreshing, for it had begun to ache from their walk from the barn. Gingerly, he made the crossing and sat upon the grass on the other side.
“I’m supposed to do that, too?” Gilbert whispered. “Walk on water?”
“I told you, there are stepping stones beneath the surface.”
“What if I slip?”
“Then you’ll get wet. But you better not, because you’ll make so much noise you’ll alert the watch.”
“If they aren’t watching already.”
“I’ve a feeling this is one part of the wall that is not watched. But not if there’s a commotion.”
“What if it’s deep? I could drown.”
“Probably so. It’s as deep as your head, so be careful.”
“Be careful, the man says.” Gilbert rose and tested the water with a toe. He fell backward when it found no resistance, but at least did not cry out or roll into the water. He tried again. This time, his probing foot found the first stone. “Good Heavens.”
“Come on, hurry.”
Hurry was not in Gilbert’s nature, however, especially when an awful death lay on either side, accessible by a simple misstep. Gilbert at last threw himself onto the grassy slope of the ditch, although he would have slid down into the water if Stephen had not caught his shoulder.
Stephen clambered to the patch of vines. He pulled up the wicker cover.
“You first,” Stephen said.
“No, you, I insist,” Gilbert gasped.
“All right, then. Hold the door.”
Gilbert grasped the wicker. “It’s like the tunnel at Ludlow,” he said referring to a certain secret tunnel that gave access to the castle beneath the northwest tower of Ludlow Castle.
“I suppose,” Stephen said, squeezing into the tunnel.
It was unlike the Ludlow tunnel in that it was lined with wooden planks and not stone and was not tall enough for a man to stand upright. Instead, you had to crouch. He scuttled into the dark, feeling his way, knocking his head against the ceiling a few times. Gilbert climbed in and settled the wicker doorway behind him.
Stephen shuffled for some distance until he bumped into a ladder.
“Up we go,” he murmured.
He climbed the ladder to a trapdoor. He feared that it might be bolted, but it yielded a couple of inches when he pushed up on it. He listened to make sure no one was about. Hearing nothing, he lifted the door, careful that it should not fall with a bang and alert anyone nearby, and climbed out of the hole.
Stephen was in a small shack. It seemed to be filled with gardening tools. He made out hand scythes on the wall, rakes, hoes, a shovel, an ax, and more.
He crawled to the doorway and kept watch while Gilbert labored up the ladder, wheezing with the effort.
“You were not meant for a life of crime,” Stephen said when Gilbert joined him at the door.
“I was most certainly not,” Gilbert said. “I was meant to spend life before the hearth with my children at my feet and a book on my lap. But that life is impossible around you.”
“My father said I was a bad seed,” Stephen said, as he rose and entered the garden. “Always causing trouble. I’ve tried ever since to live down to his expectations.”
“You are an example to us all of what not to do.”
“Well, there is Harry.”
“I am taking Harry into account.”
Stephen paused to get his bearings, then struck off across a pasture of knee-high grass. An orchard loomed to the right, bordered by a wicker fence. Ahead one house had its windows thrown open, candles illuminating people drinking inside. The buzz of conversation drifted across the field. He followed the fence to its conclusion at the rear of the lighted house, where there was a vegetable garden and a privy, unseen but detectable by its signature aroma. As if that wasn’t enough, he heard voices in the dark ahead. He lay down against the fence as two men stumbled out of a gap between two houses and made for the privy. The one who got there first took advantage of it. The other, unable to wait, urinated in the path.
Stephen waited until the two men had returned through the gap between the houses, and then went through it himself. He thought it was clear, but he bumped into a whore on her knees servicing a man leaning back against the side of a house.
“Watch where you’re going, you drunken sod!” the whore snapped. “You almost made me bite it off!”
“Sorry,” Stephen muttered.
The alley opened onto Grope Lane. The surprise was that the lighted house was Squinty Peg’s.
Meanwhile, the whore’s protests had been heard by others. A brawny fellow with the Squinty face held a lantern aloft at the mouth of the alley. The white face of the whore looked surprised, while her customer looked frightened. They both took off running toward the back garden, pursued by the Squinty boy, who shouted, “You bitch! You’re not allowed to work here!”
Stephen pulled his hat down about his ears and walked fast toward Olde Street, despite the ache in his bad foot.
He could breathe easier having got around the corner, but there was still the night watch to look out for, since the church bells around the city began to peel, announcing the curfew.
Indeed, a couple of bailiffs were lying in wait across the street to catch a quick and easy fine. They started after Stephen and Gilbert, with a, “Hey, you! Stop!”
Normally, you only needed to provide an excuse and a fin
ancial incentive to avoid arrest for breaking curfew, but Stephen was certain he would be recognized. He took off running as fast as his bad foot would allow.
This was unexpected. The guilty usually just gave up and paid, so he was able to get quite a jump on them. Not to be deprived if their fine, however, the bailiffs gave chase. One grasped Gilbert’s sleeve, but Gilbert pivoted and knocked him off his feet with a punch. Now, in addition to curfew breaking, they could add assault of a city officer to their list of offenses.
The other bailiff was so astonished at this that he stopped to help his companion to his feet, and by then Stephen and Gilbert had reached the corner of Saint Peter’s Church and turned into Butchery Row.
The assaulted bailiffs began clanging their alarm bells and calling the hue and cry. The guildhall was just ahead, and figures could be seen spilling from the front porch.
Stephen and Gilbert ducked behind a rain barrel and a lumber pile at the corner of the hall as the other bailiffs pelted by in search of the cause of the disturbance.
“That was close,” Gilbert whispered.
“We’re not out of the woods yet,” Stephen said.
When it seemed safe, he stood up and went around the other side of the hall to Coken Row. They kept to the shadows on the north side of the street, crossed Wydemarsh Street and went as far as All Saint’s Church, where they turned south toward Eigne Street. As they passed the church’s entrance, a figure loomed. Given his previous experience in the dark here, Stephen sidestepped and drew his dagger.
“Stay where you are, lads, if you don’t want to get hurt,” Stephen said to the two hooded figures who emerged from the portico and then withdrew at the sight of the dagger.
“Oh, dear!” Gilbert panted as he circled around the danger. “I cannot catch my breath!” He bent over, hands on knees, panting like a horse that had run a mile flat out. “This is awful.”
“Let’s hope this is the worst of it.”
And it appeared to be, for they reached Milk Lane without hazarding life, limb, or fortune, apart from having to hide from another patrol of the night watch as they doubled back on Behynderthewall Lane.
Milk Lane ran south from Behynderthewall Lane to the northeast corner of the cathedral close. Despite its narrowness and seeming insignificance, it was one of the streets in town where the richest people lived. Shops lined the street, with the great houses behind them. The passage to the great houses consisted of gateways through the rank of shops which were barred at night.
Except for a tavern which was emptying out as they had passed at Behynderthewall, it was quiet and dark, everyone in the houses along the street having gone to bed.
Curthose’s house, according to Squinty Peg, was the third from the corner. However, Stephen had not asked which side of the street it was on or how to find it behind the shops.
“How could you overlook such a fundamental detail?” Gilbert asked as they stood in the street looking from one third-from-the-corner house to the other.
“It slipped my mind,” Stephen said.
“Do you think Theo might know?”
“He might.”
“I’m not looking forward to a journey all the way to Jews Street and back.”
“Maybe we don’t have to.”
Stephen retraced their steps to the tavern, which was in the cellar beneath a glove-maker’s shop.
“Wait here,” he said to Gilbert.
Stephen descended the steps to the tavern door and went in. No one was there but the proprietor and his wife, who was sweeping the floor while the proprietor was carrying in fresh kegs of drink for the morrow.
“We’re closed,” the wife said, leaning on her broom.
“I can see that. I didn’t come for the drink.”
“We’ve nothing left to eat, if that’s what you’re after, then,” she said. “The boys cleaned us out an hour ago.”
“I’ve not come for that either. I’m looking for the Curthose house.”
“This time of night? Go on. And what would the likes of you have to do with Curthose?”
Stephen paused at a loss for what to say. Then inspiration struck. “I heard he might be looking for a new groom. I’ve experience with horses. I want to be first at the gate in the morning in case there might be others.”
“You don’t look the sort who’d know which end of a horse to feed.”
“I was a mounted sergeant once, before I got captured in Wales last winter on the Prince’s campaign, and lost everything.”
“Hmmm,” allowed the wife, reluctant to help since former soldiers were suspect as thieves and robbers.
“I’m looking for a situation.”
“Go ahead, Bets,” the proprietor said. “He looks harmless enough. Tell him.”
“It’s the third from the close on the right.”
“I know that,” Stephen said. “But you can’t see the house for the shops.”
The wife chuckled. “Look for the third large gate from the corner, you fool.”
The gate was ajar when they found it. Stephen paused at the opening, for no one left a gate like this open during the night. It was the porter’s duty to ensure that the bar was in place before going to bed. Something was wrong.
Stephen stepped into the passage that led to the inner courtyard. To the right, a doorway was dimly visible in the dark. It was not clear if this was the porter’s lodging, but probably wasn’t. Most likely it belonged to the people renting the house and shop on that side of the passage.
Stephen and Gilbert went on to the courtyard. There was a barn to the right, a well in the middle, a stable straight ahead, and the townhouse to the left. The house appeared to be the usual sort: made of timber upon a stone undercroft, three stories tall.
They crossed the courtyard and climbed the stairs to the first-floor entrance. Stephen paused halfway up. He thought he heard voices in the undercroft. It might have been his imagination, though, but there was a light on in the hall above his head indicating that people might still be awake. Perhaps the voices actually came from the hall and the wind had tricked his ears. He knocked on the front door, but no one answered. When no one came, he pounded on the door. Still no one answered. The door yielded a few inches to the pounding — like the gate, it was not barred as it should be.
A dim light showed in the interior of the hall behind the wooden screen separating the entryway from the hall proper.
“Is anyone home?” Stephen called through the doorway.
There was no reply.
Stephen entered the entryway and peered into the hall. A single oil lamp guttered on the high table at the other end. There were pallets on the floor as if the servants either had been in bed or were preparing to retire, with blankets strewn about haphazardly.
But no one was there.
Stephen ran across the hall to the stairway leading to the bedchambers, alarm in his heart without any reason why he should feel that way.
It was dark as pitch up there, and he had to go back for the oil lamp to see his way. The first chamber he came to was vacant, the bed mussed.
There was a naked man inside the second chamber, bound to a chair hand and foot. His head sagged forward so that his face could not be seen.
Stephen knelt before the man and lifted up the head to see the face.
It was Geoffrey Curthose. His face was badly bruised, an eye swollen shut, and his lips were rent by several great cuts. One of them ran from the corner of his mouth to the jaw as if it had been sliced open with a knife. Blood had leaked onto his thighs and the hands clasped in his lap, one hand a fist and the other enclosing it. Several teeth seemed to be missing.
He was dead.
Stephen stood up, trembling. He was as familiar with death as he was with anything. He had made death his trade for more than ten years, since he had run away from the apprenticeship his father had forced him to take with a royal justice. But this death, the mutilations having occurred while Curthose was alive, shocked him more than he could admit even
to himself. It left his mind utterly blank. He had no idea what to do.
Gilbert, even though he was as stunned as Stephen, took the oil lamp from his hands and examined the state of the bedchamber. There were two chests and a wardrobe, and the contents of them both, which included parchments and vellums and clothing, had been tossed onto the floor.
“I wonder if they found what they were looking for?” Gilbert mused. “The letter, you think?”
“What else could it have been?” Stephen asked. “I doubt it’s here if it ever was.”
His attention focused on the two clasped hands. One might think that they were folded in prayer for what Curthose must have known was coming. But the manner of the clench suggested something protective. Out of curiosity more than anything, Stephen worked to unclasp the hands. In the grip of the fist he found a small medallion. He rose and examined it in the light of the oil lamp. It was a polished iron bear with an arrow in its jaws and a needle-like clip for attaching it to one’s coat — a livery badge, the sort of thing that it was becoming popular for the followers of barons and the nobility to wear as a sign of their allegiance. A fragment of green wool was impaled on the clip.
“Who do you think it was?” Gilbert asked, on his hands and knees looking under the bed, oblivious to Stephen’s find.
Stephen shook his head. “Anyone — the King’s men, Montfort’s, they both would have an interest.” He tried to put out of his mind the thought that Margaret de Thottenham might have been involved, but he could not. She was a hard woman, and there was no telling how far she would go to get what she wanted. But if not her, then certainly there were plenty of others with a sufficient lack of scruples. Had she adopted such a badge? He had seen the like somewhere, but not about her person or that of her followers.
“We should get out of here,” Stephen said, turning toward the door and slipping the badge into his pouch.
“That’s the best suggestion I’ve heard from you in weeks.”
They reached the landing for the two chambers below when they heard voices in the hall. Something, a suspicion that if asked he could not have articulated, caused Stephen to blow out the oil lamp, for with the voices there were many wavering lights that could only come from torches.