by Jason Vail
The prior sighed. “No, it is not.”
“So, you are not bound by considerations of confidentiality as to the name of that person.”
“I am bound by considerations of prudence and friendship.”
“Friendship …” Stephen rolled the word around on his tongue and in his mind until its full import struck. “So, Sir Rogier’s chaplain brought his coffin here.”
The prior looked pained. He nodded. “Father Philo.”
“Do you know why Father Philo has not come forward with his testimony?” Stephen asked.
“That I cannot say.”
“I do not remember questioning a chaplain,” Gilbert said as they made their way back to the Leominster road. “Did you?”
“No, and I suspect he was not in the house when we and Mapuleye arrived. He hid himself because he did not want to be questioned, and to give lies for an answer.”
They reached the road and turned toward the city, the north wall and gate a brilliant white even though draped in shadow for most of its length.
It was but a short walk to the lane leading to the FitzHerbert manor house. They entered the yard. Stephen looked around. It was quiet. No one seemed to be about: not in the kitchen, the brewery, the barn or the stable. He heard voices behind the house and realized that all the villains and freeholders were out harvesting apples in the orchard.
He crossed to the little chapel, noting that there was no graveyard about it as was often the case with family chapels. It was a well-built little place with a small tower that was more ornamental than functional; church towers often served as defensive hiding places in time of trouble, the whole whitewashed and clean, nor any moss on the roof shingles as if from time to time some poor servant had to get up there and sweep them off.
“Look at the windows,” Gilbert said. “They are paned with colored glass!”
This was indeed an extravagance, but it was growing popular to fill church windows with glass.
“It won’t be long before the rich put glass in the windows of their houses,” Stephen said, striding toward the side door.
He glanced in. It was deserted.
Gilbert peered around the jam to get a look too, and he gasped, for the colored glass — reds, greens, blues, yellows — transmuted the raw sunlight in a wondrously colorful way, sending down shafts of multiple colors than mingled on the dirt floor. “Will you look at that!”
“They have the same at the Hereford cathedral, you know. Only the panes are put together to make figures and to tell stories from the Gospels.”
“I’ve heard. I should like to see it.”
“When we’re done with our work, we’ll go there.”
“That would be wonderful.”
There was a large timber house of one story behind the chapel. The outside was freshly plastered, and the thatch was well-cared for. It had to be the chaplain’s house. So, Stephen went there and knocked on the door. He heard shuffling inside and presently the door opened, revealing an old man, hair gray and thin about his ears, a long nose made longer by an emaciated face, the back stooped so that the top of the tonsured head came no higher than Stephen’s shoulder.
“What can I do for you, sir?” the old priest asked in a reedy, shaking voice.
“You are Father Philo?” Stephen asked.
“I am. And you are?”
“Stephen Attebrook.”
“Ah, I thought so. My eyesight isn’t what it used to be. And I suppose you want to talk to me.”
“I do.”
“Well, you might as well come in. I cannot offer you refreshment, I am afraid. I have used up the last of my ale and in any case, my servant girl has gone out to the apple harvest.” Father Philo wagged a finger in the air. “Nothing like the apple harvest! Soon we’ll have cider!”
It was a substantial house, large and spacious, divided into a hall and adjoining rooms. There was even a large wooden chair with cushions before the hearth.
Father Philo settled onto one of the benches at the table in the hall, and Stephen and Gilbert took places on the other side of the table.
“You’ve come to ask me about Sir Rogier,” Father Philo said. “I had expected you earlier, but then I heard you’d had a spot of trouble yourself. Has that been resolved?”
“Not completely.”
“Well, I am sorry. What would you like to know?” Father Philo smiled. It gave his face a benign, even friendly appearance. “I don’t think there’s much I can tell you that will help.”
“I spoke to Prior Hamelin,” Stephen said. “He told me you brought Sir Rogier’s body to be buried in the church cemetery two nights ago.”
Father Philo’s smile disappeared. “Oh. You know about that.”
“Prior Hamelin would not have allowed a suicide to be buried in consecrated ground, except he says you swore that the death was not suicide.”
“He broke his vows when he said that!”
“I deduced what you said from what little he told me. How do you know Sir Rogier’s death was not suicide?”
“I have sinned,” he said. “I do not know it wasn’t a suicide. Although I don’t believe it.”
“So you lied to Prior Hamelin,” Stephen said.
“Yes. The sin is mine. But I will bear it for the good his father did for me. You know what happens to the souls of those not buried in consecrated ground! They are doomed to wander the earth or sink into Hell! They have no chance for God’s redemption. I could not let that happen to his lordship.”
“You have served the family a long time?”
“I was a villain of the family. But Lord Serlo, Sir Rogier’s father, saw fit to sponsor my education and celebrated my ordination on condition that I remain and be the family chaplain and provide care and comfort for the people living and working in this parish.”
“You agreed to this?” Gilbert asked.
“Gladly.”
“Were you here the night Sir Rogier died?” Stephen asked.
“I was.”
“Is there anything you care to tell me?”
Father Filo shook his head. “I slept soundly that night. I never had to get up once, which is unusual. I rise often during the night. It’s an old man’s disease, being unable to sleep.”
“Did you see or hear anything unusual?”
“As I said, I slept through the whole night.”
Stephen went to the window and studied the manor house. “Are Lady Aleusa and Lady Isabel here now?”
“No. They left three days ago.”
“Which is what enabled you to move Sir Rogier’s body without them knowing.”
“You suspect me of too much cunning.”
“Where did they go?”
“To her dowry manor. A place called Hawkley. When you see them, you won’t say anything about Sir Rogier’s resting place, will you? I’d rather Lady Aleusa not know.”
“I have no reason to mention it.”
“Thank you.”
“There is one other thing I’ve just remembered. Was Albert Ferrand here on the night of Sir Rogier’s death?”
“No. Lady Aleusa sent for him afterward. His lordship refused to have him in his house.”
“Why?”
“The rumor is that Ferrand is Lady Aleusa’s son.”
“Her son?” Stephen asked confused. He had been under the impression that Sir Rogier was his father’s only male descendent. Then it occurred to him that like his niece, Ida, this Ferrand was the issue of a previous marriage. “She was married before?”
“No. When Lord Serlo was on crusade, she whelped a child by a fellow called Adam de Bebyngtone. Went off to a nunnery to have the bastard, hoping that no one would find out. But her maid told me about it on her deathbed. Had the boy taken on by someone on her father’s estate and raised there. When Ferrand was older, she brought him into her service. Sir Rogier found out the truth somehow. He was furious and ordered Ferrand and Lady Aleusa away. She has not visited since.”
“So what was Lady A
leusa doing here?”
“His lordship summoned her and Lady Isabel.”
“Summoned them?”
“Yes, they have been at Hawkley during Lady Isabel’s confinement and delivery.”
“Why would he summon them?”
“I don’t know. He received a letter from Langley Priory that set him off, agitated him more than I’ve ever seen him upset. Straightaway, he wrote to Lady Aleusa and Lady Isabel demanding they come to Broadstowe.”
“What was in this letter?”
“I don’t know.”
“You didn’t read the manor’s correspondence?” Often chaplains served double duty as a lord’s chief clerk.
“No, I have gotten out of that work lately. My eyes are not as good as they used to be.”
“Does your replacement know what was in the letter?”
“No, he told me about it, but said his lordship kept the letter close.”
“And what happened when they arrived?”
“They had a discussion in the chapel. It sounded like a row, for voices were raised.”
“Could you tell what was the point of it?”
“No. None of us was allowed near. Curthose prowled the grounds shooing everyone away. It was most unusual. I am tired now. Can you have mercy on an old man and let me be?”
Chapter 24
There was no point in remaining at the manor, since enlightenment could only come from wringing the truth from Lady Aleusa and Lady Isabel. But Stephen’s feet took him across the yard to the house and up the steps to the doorway.
“What are you doing?” Gilbert panted as he hurried to catch up. “Have you had a thought?”
“I am out of thoughts for the day,” Stephen grumbled.
“I was so certain that this Ferrand person was the culprit who went out the window,” Gilbert gasped as he strained to climb the stairs.
“He may yet be,” Stephen said. “Who is to say the chaplain was telling the truth.”
“I thought he was truthful.”
“Yes. That’s what made me have doubts.”
“You are always full of doubts, except when you’re leaping to conclusions.”
“Who has leapt to conclusions now?”
“Well, I admit my guilt. But I dare you to say you didn’t think of it yourself”
“The shadow of a suspicion did cross my mind once.”
“And remains, it seems.”
“And remains,” Stephen agreed. “Until it is dispelled.”
He knocked on the door.
One of the resident chamberlains opened it. His eyebrows rose at the sight of Stephen. “What can I do for you, sir?”
“I’d like to see Sir Rogier’s bedchamber, please,” Stephen said.
The chamberlain hesitated and then stood back to admit them.
“You know the way, sir,” the chamberlain said.
The stairway leading to the chambers in the attached wooden tower had two landings. Stephen had not marked this feature when he was here the first time. Why was he always missing things? Weren’t the answers in the little details? If he failed to register them, how was he ever to figure anything out? He paused on the first landing, where there was a doorway.
“What is behind this door?” he asked the chamberlain, who was on Gilbert’s heels.
“It is a guest chamber,” the chamberlain said.
“Was it occupied on the night Sir Rogier died?”
“The Lady Aleusa had use of it,” the chamberlain said.
“I understand that Lady Aleusa and Sir Rogier had fallen out.”
“That is my understanding,” the chamberlain said cautiously.
“Something about her having a child by a man who was not her husband.”
“That was said.”
“By whom?”
“Many people like to engage in evil gossip.”
“Not you, of course.”
“Certainly not.”
“So, you don’t really know.”
“No.”
“And you have no idea why Lady Aleusa and Lady Isabel came here and what they and Sir Rogier quarreled about.”
“No idea whatsoever.”
Stephen opened the door and entered the chamber. There was a fireplace in the exterior wall, a poster bed with the curtains tied back, a chair by the window with a cushion, and a table. The walls were plastered and painted with scenes from the Gospels. It was an impersonal room, without the touch that indicated any single individual spent much time there, although with the shutters open it was sunny, bright and pleasant.
“Where were Albert Ferrand’s quarters on the night of Sir Rogier’s death?”
“Ferrand was not here.”
“So much for that speculation,” Gilbert sighed, with some disappointment.
“What did you say?” the chamberlain asked.
“You’ve just conclusively ruled out my favorite suspect,” Gilbert said.
“What are you talking about?”
“It’s nothing,” Gilbert said. “Just forget I’m here.”
“Do you have any idea where Ferrand was on that night?” Stephen asked.
“I assume at Hawkley Manor,” the chamberlain said. “He is now the steward there. Seems a bit young for such responsibility. Please don’t mention that I said so.”
“Nothing to worry about. How old is he?”
“Hardly nineteen, the same age as Lady Isabel.”
“Are Ferrand and Lady Isabel fond of each other?” Gilbert asked.
“What makes you think they are?” the chamberlain asked in a tone that indicated he had taken to heart Gilbert’s suggestion that he pretend Gilbert wasn’t there, and had found only disappointment.
“I saw them together once.”
“They are friends,” the chamberlain said. “I suppose. They certainly know each other. How could they not?”
“Close friends?” Gilbert asked.
“Are you implying something?”
“Nothing. We are just interested in the facts.”
“I do not see what that has to do with Sir Rogier’s death.”
“Did Lady Isabel visit Hawkley often?” Stephen asked.
“She went there quite a lot,” the chamberlain said. “She and Lady Aleusa were fond of each other.”
“And did she arrive from there with Lady Aleusa?”
“When?”
“The last time she came here.”
There was a long pause. The chamberlain said, “Yes.”
“And they came without Ferrand?”
“Yes. He fell from a horse and turned an ankle, quite badly, apparently. He has a hard time getting around.”
“But he came here quite soon after Sir Rogier’s death,” Gilbert said. “In a wagon.”
“So what?”
“So nothing,” Gilbert said. “And he left in a wagon, too, I suppose.”
“His ankle pained him,” the chamberlain said.
“Did the ladies go with him?” Stephen asked.
“They are solicitous of Ferrand’s welfare,” the chamberlain said.
“Hmmm,” Stephen muttered.
He left that chamber and climbed to the top landing, where he went into the small entrance hall.
The door to FitzHerbert’s chamber had been removed and not replaced. Instead of crossing to that chamber, he entered the other one. Although it faced north and did not get direct sun, it was bright and cheerful. It seemed that everything was yellow, the yellow wood of the carved bedstead, its heavy embroidered curtains, a yellow-painted wardrobe decorated with painted red poppies. Floral scenes were painted on the walls. A yellow porcelain washbowl rested upon a polished wooden stand by the window, which overlooked the yard.
As Stephen advanced into the room, he became aware that there was more than one bed. Behind the door, there was another. This one was plain, without carved decorations or curtains, yet it too was yellow, including the embroidered woolen blanket that covered it. There was a cradle beside it, also with a yellow bl
anket. Across the room beside the wardrobe was linen pallet and blanket on the floor, the sort of thing used by a servant. The nursemaid’s?
“Who sleeps there?” Stephen asked the chamberlain, indicating the bed by the cradle.
“That is Lady Madeline’s bed,” the chamberlain said.
Stephen stared down at the bed, his mind in turmoil. It was the sort of agitation that preceded some revelation, some idea. Yet nothing floated to the surface, well, not quite.
He strode to Lady Isabel’s bed and sat down.
“What are you doing!” cried the chamberlain.
“I am thinking,” Stephen replied, although the thoughts that rushed through his mind were fragments that did not amount to anything meaningful. “Gilbert, take the gentleman into FitzHerbert’s chamber. And talk.”
“Talk,” said Gilbert, perplexed.
“Yes, about anything, sing a song. Just so noise comes out or your mouths.”
“You have gone daft,” Gilbert said. He tugged at the chamberlain’s sleeve. “If you wouldn’t mind humoring Sir Stephen? He has fits like this from time to time and the only thing to do is not to arouse him with your resistance. Pretend he’s being perfectly sensible.”
The chamberlain looked as though he was about to summon help to remove Stephen from the bed, but instead, he left with Gilbert.
Stephen shut the door and sat back down on the bed. He could hear voices through the walls. He couldn’t make out what they were saying, but he could tell Gilbert’s voice from the chamberlain’s.
Just so, he thought.
He was about to stand, but he noticed the cord holding the curtains open. There was one such cord for the six curtains securing them in loops of four about each curtain — four curtains on the sides and two at the foot. It was a lot of cord for the task assigned to it. He examined the cords closely. They were yellow, of course, and appeared to be made of dyed linen. They were about as thick as his thumb. He unfastened all the cords and tied them end to end. Then he hung the resulting rope out the window. It just reached the ground. Disappointed, he pulled the cord back in and tossed it on the bed, mindful of the chamberlain’s probable reaction.
Stephen went into the master chamber. Gilbert halted in midsentence at his appearance.
“What was that about?” Gilbert asked.