Murder at Broadstowe Manor

by Jason Vail

  “I’ll be more sure in a moment,” Stephen said. He examined the cords restraining the curtains on the bed. They were a different cord from the one that had been there before, blue and green, rather than purple and silver. He unfastened them over the chamberlain’s protests and tied four of the six together. He tied the resulting rope to the leg of the bed where he and Gilbert had found the damaged elephant carving, and dangled the end out the window. It came to no more than half way to the ground. “Just so,” he said aloud. “I hope.”

  “Just so, what?” Gilbert asked.

  “Gilbert, why do you persist in wasting my time with such questions?” Stephen said. “We must get to Hawkley.”

  Chapter 25

  Stephen did not know where Hawkley was. But an inquiry of Prior Hamelin gave him two routes to get there. It lay about six miles north of Hereford off the road to Leominster at the foot of Dinmore Hill, the great eminence that was so steep in spots that carts and wagons struggled to make the summit and then struggled not to run out of control on the way down. But the manor lay across the River Lugg, which ran along the northeastern foot of the hill, and since there was no convenient way across the river at that point, the few people traveling to Hawkley usually took the road through Sutton Saint Nicholas and on to Bodenham.

  “Take the road north out of Bodenham and go left at the first fork,” Prior Hamelin said. “The road runs straight to Hawkley from there. A blind man couldn’t miss it.”

  The road through Bodenham was longer, though, so Stephen, who could not abide delay, and Gilbert rode toward Leominster and climbed Dinmore Hill, which offered a pretty view on its precipitous southeastern slope of the Lugg valley, the fields blond with stubble and the trees turning yellow, orange and red.

  “Will you look at that!” Gilbert exclaimed as his mule plodded upward.

  “Look at what?” Stephen muttered.

  “The valley!”

  “What about the valley?”

  “It’s quite beautiful.”

  Stephen glanced over his shoulder at Gilbert, who was turned in the saddle to admire the view. “Just don’t fall off. The view isn’t worth it.”

  “One must take risks for beauty,” Gilbert said, gripping the pommel for support as the mule shied out of the way of a wagon coming their way at a speed that was not good for the wagon or anyone nearby.

  “Huh,” Stephen said, too preoccupied with thoughts which left no room for the admiration of nature.

  He didn’t even remember reaching the summit of the hill and heading down until they passed above a small village on the western slope of the spur the hill extended toward Leominster. Then they were in the flatland by the river.

  The fields beyond the spur on this side of the Lugg belonged to the manor of Dinmore. A well-used track led away from the road toward the river three-hundred or so yards away, so it seemed no crime to take it.

  The track ended at the river, where there was a cut in the bank. A rope stretched across to the weir on the other side, where a mill could be heard grinding away, and beyond the mill were the gray thatched roofs of a village. It was small, maybe ten or twelve houses.

  The miller spotted them on the bank. “You looking to cross?” he called to them.

  “That was my intention,” Stephen replied.

  “It’s a bit deep here! Wait a moment and I’ll fetch you.”

  He clambered down the weir to a broad, flat-bottomed boat — a ferry — which he pulled across the stream by means of the rope.

  “I wonder how deep it really is,” Gilbert murmured as the ferryman/miller made his way toward them, thinking that perhaps they could save their money, now dwindling, by foregoing the ferry. “Although I have no enthusiasm for finding out.”

  “Over your head, probably,” Stephen said.

  “But isn’t the question whether it is over my faithful mule’s?”

  “You have a way of cutting to the heart of a problem.”

  “Which is why you need me, now more than ever, when you are so confused.”

  “I would not say I am confused. Just perplexed. I think I have all the parts, but I cannot work out how they all fit together and what they mean.”

  The boat was big enough to fit both them and their animals. But when the mule realized they wanted her to set foot in the boat, she refused with all the stubbornness a mule could muster.

  Stephen finally uncinched the saddle which he tossed on the boat, and, handing Gilbert the mule’s reins, instructed the ferryman to draw away from the shore. Stephen then pushed the mule from behind, praying to God that she would not kick. He had seen people killed from the kick of a horse, and he had no doubt that a mule’s animosity could be as deadly.

  After much resistance, fore feet dug obstinately into the mud of the bank, the mule at last yielded to persuasion, gingerly entered the river, found that it was not so terrible after all, and swam across with the ferry in the lead, leaving Stephen to admire his cleverness with mules from the west bank.

  The ferryman returned to fetch him, happy at the fee he got for making two crossings instead of one.

  “If you don’t mind my asking, sir,” the ferryman asked as he counted his farthings, “what brings you here? We don’t often get visitors of your sort this way.”

  “I am visiting Lady Aleusa,” Stephen said. “I trust she’s here?”

  “Just came back from Hereford the other day,” the ferryman said.

  “And Lady Isabel and Lady Madeline are here as well?”

  “Yes, sir. Shame about his lordship, but Lady Isabel will make a fine new match that’s more suited to her now. A great lady she is despite her age, and Lady Aleusa is too, no matter what anyone says.”

  “Does Lady Isabel spend a great deal of time here?”

  “She does, except during her delivery. She was up at Langley Priory then. With Lady Madeline.”

  “Ah, of course, the maid.”

  The ferryman put a finger to his lips. “Well, Lady Madeline had her delivery, too.”

  “What?”

  “You didn’t know?”

  “I am not close to the family.”

  “She fell pregnant about the same time as Lady Isabel. That’s what prompted her and Master Ferrand to marry, so’s the child wouldn’t be a bastard. Although the marriage is supposed to be a secret. Ferrand’s parents are said to object to the match. She died, though.”

  “She?”

  “The child. A stillborn daughter.”

  “That is too bad.”

  “It was. There were sad faces around here for weeks afterward.” The ferryman beamed. “His young lordship is doing fine, though. Never seen a lad so young with so much hair — and red as a carrot! Not that his lordship cared about the boy. He hadn’t seen him until last week, when he summoned the lot to Hereford.”

  “You’d think he’d come here first thing,” Gilbert said. “His heir, after all.”

  “You’d think,” the ferryman said, “but you’d be wrong. But then, the high-born aren’t like us common folk. They often don’t seem much attached to their children. Your pardon, though, sir.”

  “My parents didn’t care much for me,” Stephen said, “so there’s nothing to pardon.”

  “Well,” the ferryman said, touching his forelock, “got to get back to work. The grain don’t grind itself, you know.”

  “Don’t you have helpers?” Gilbert said, seeing movement inside the mill.

  “Course I do,” the ferryman/miller said. “But they’ll make a mess of things if I don’t keep an eye on them.”

  “Well, those were parts we didn’t have,” Gilbert said as they led their mounts along the road toward the manor house. “I wonder what they mean?”

  Stephen nodded. “I am beginning to have an inkling.”

  “Do you care to share your thoughts?”

  “And be attacked for leaping to conclusions? No.”

  “Well, have you at least worked out how you plan to proceed?”

  “More or less.�
�

  Gilbert regarded Stephen with skepticism. “I would believe the less part rather than the more.”

  Meanwhile, the manor house had come into view a few hundred yards ahead. It was a pretty thing in the flat lands on this side of the river, a timber hall adjoining a square defensive tower, a common plan in these parts which were occasionally visited by the Welsh. Stephen, in fact, had grown up in such a house further to the west where the danger was greater. The hall was surrounded by the usual outbuildings: kitchen, dovecote, forge, barns, stable, sheepfold. The occupants of the sheepfold were visible in the fields beyond the house, the whole picture framed by the rising wooded slopes of Dinmore Hill looming on the other side of the river.

  As they neared the house, Gilbert said, “I don’t like the looks of that.”

  That was the fact there were four young men mounted on horses and riding at a quintain.

  “We could be walking into trouble,” Gilbert said.

  “So we could.”

  “No one knows we’ve come here. If anything happens to us, no one will know where to look.”

  “Prior Hamelin would suspect. It would be too late by then.”

  “Assuming the worst.”

  “You always assume the worst.”

  “Well, you’re never disappointed that way, and are often pleasantly surprised.”

  Stephen dismounted and unbuckled the leather bag he carried behind the saddle. It held his gambeson, flat-topped helmet, mail and blue surcoat. With Gilbert’s inexpert help, he put on his war gear, throwing back the coif and tucking the arming cap in his belt. He wished he had brought his shield, but, in truth, he hadn’t been expecting a fight.

  “Do you mind if I wait here?” Gilbert asked anxiously.

  “Suit yourself.” Stephen mounted and walked the horse toward the manor house.

  Gilbert fidgeted and then, unwilling to be left behind after all despite his better judgment, climbed aboard the mule, which bucked as Gilbert settled into the saddle. Stephen turned back and caught the mule’s bridle to still him so that Gilbert could settle into the saddle.

  “You need a new mule,” Stephen said.

  “What I need is a nice docile horse,” Gilbert said.

  “Buy one, then.”

  “Edith won’t allow me to spend the money. She thinks it’s a frivolous expense.”

  “She might be right. She usually is when it comes to money.”

  “Not with all the traveling you’ve forced upon me. Dear God, I hate travel. It makes one so uncomfortable — sleeping in barns, dealing with all the rain, the bad food, the prospect of death behind every bush.”

  “I’ll put in a good word for you about the horse. But remember, if you hadn’t spent the money on that book, you wouldn’t need Edith’s permission.”

  “Do speak to her. I’m sure it will make all the difference.”

  The land was open and relatively flat so that the men in the manor’s yard spotted them long before they arrived. The four men at the quintain stopped what they were doing, fetched swords and were waiting in the yard when Stephen and Gilbert rode through the gate. They regarded Gilbert, a stout little bald man on a cranky mule, with contempt, but Stephen with some caution. Stephen’s gear was of the best quality, and marked him out as a man to be reckoned with, even if his companion was much less so.

  They were all lean and hard, and had the look of hired men, mounted sergeants and not landed knights. It made sense, Stephen supposed, for a woman living alone to have fighting men about for protection.

  “You looking for trouble?” one of them asked Stephen.

  “Not unless you care to offer any,” Stephen said. “I’m looking for Alfred Ferrand. Is he here?”

  The one who had questioned him, jerked a thumb toward the house. “In there. He expecting you?”

  “No.”

  Stephen dismounted, tucked his helmet under his left arm, and strode toward the house.

  Gilbert plopped off the mule, and grasped Stephen’s reins, which he held out to the fighting men. “Would you be so kind as to take care of our mounts? Thanks so much.”

  The man who had questioned them accepted the reins before he realized what he had done. He spat in the dirt, threw down the reins and shouted for a groom.

  The four men followed Stephen and Gilbert into the hall.

  It was deserted except for a muscular, handsome man with auburn hair and a prow of a chin, the same as Gilbert had described seeing in the yard at Broadstowe, seated by the hearth with his bandaged foot on a stool.

  “Don’t bother to get up,” Stephen said, settling onto a bench on the other side of the hearth. Gilbert stood behind Stephen, keeping an eye on the four sergeants.

  “You’re Ferrand, I take it?” Stephen asked.

  “Who the devil are you?” Ferrand asked.

  “My name is Stephen Attebrook.”

  At the mention of Stephen’s name, Ferrand’s mouth fell open. “Isabel! Madeline!” he shouted. “Come quickly! That fellow Attebrook’s here!” In a more normal tone, Ferrand said, “You’re supposed to be under arrest.”

  “I’m on bail. I think we might want Lady Aleusa here as well.”

  “Oh, she’ll come at the mention of your name.”

  “How are you doing, by the way?”

  Ferrand was surprised by this question, since he had not expected small talk. “I’ll be on my feet in a few days. It’s nothing serious. A sprain.”

  “Ah. How did that happen?”

  Ferrand waved toward the four sergeants. “I was working with that lot breaking a horse. One of them thought it would be funny to pitch a stone at her. She bolted and threw me. I landed wrong.”

  This raised a chuckle from the sergeants. “Come on, Bert,” one of them said. “You’ve got to admit, it was funny.”

  “I’ll get you back, you bastards,” Ferrand said, shaking a finger at them. But there was no actual malice in the threat. It was the sort of thing friends said to each other, rough friends accustomed to hard give and take.

  Presently, the women appeared through the door leading to the pantry. Lady Aleusa emerged first, followed by Isabel and then Madeline. Madeline handed a linen rag to a servant girl at the doorway who was holding a baby. They all sat by Ferrand, hands demurely in their laps. Madeline and Isabel avoided Stephen’s eyes. But Lady Aleusa held his gaze. She was much younger than he expected. For some reason, he had conjured up a picture in his mind of a woman approaching fifty, even sixty, her jaw square, mouth severe, face lines with the cares of age, craggy, eyes glinty and quick to judge and to find one not measuring up.

  But what he saw was a woman perhaps no more than ten years older than himself, face heart-shaped with a pointed chin, dimples on either side of a mouth that looked quick to smile, the small nose and green eyes with light brown brows that regarded him with indifference, as if there was nothing he could say that would harm her. He could see nothing of her hair, which was tucked under a wimple so white it might blind one to look at it in full sunlight, her gown sky blue and embroidered with pearl stars. Yet, there was nothing demure about her expression or her posture. She appeared more formidable than most men.

  “I knew your mother,” Lady Aleusa said. “She told me once how much of a disappointment you were to your father.”

  “She never mentioned you,” Stephen said.

  “I would add that she did not find you a disappointment. She hoped only the best for you. I don’t think she would be unhappy at how you turned out. A pity she didn’t live to see it.” Aleusa smiled slightly. “Well, then. I suppose you are here about my stepson, Rogier.”

  “Yes.”

  “What have you found out?”

  “That he did not kill himself. Or the boy.”

  “You’re certain of this? How so? Who is the culprit? The wind?”

  “I think you know.”

  Isabel started to say something, but Lady Aleusa snapped, “Be silent! Only I will speak.”

  The servant girl with t
he child turned to leave.

  “You!” Stephen snapped at her. “Stay.”

  “You do not give orders here,” Lady Aleusa said.

  “But I will,” Stephen said, “and I will be obeyed.”

  He crossed to the girl before she could duck out, grasped her arm, and forced her to a bench on his right.

  Lady Aleusa shot daggers at the four sergeants and made a brief wave of her hand toward Stephen that all but shouted “do something about this.”

  Stephen tilted his sword forward with his left hand, a move characteristic of the preparation for the draw.

  “Unless you answer my questions, there will be trouble,” Stephen said. “In such a confined space, there is no telling who will be hurt.”

  Lady Aleusa’s mouth compressed to a thin line.

  The sergeants did not move. They shifted uneasily.

  For his part, Gilbert’s knees began to shake at the prospect of violence, but he sucked in his breath and made himself look as formidable as possible, which wasn’t very.

  “This is Sir Rogier’s child?” Stephen asked.

  “That is Gerald,” Lady Aleusa said.

  The baby indeed had a full head of hair, but it was more brown, yet with a tinge of red. Stephen had seen hair that color before in this household. He glanced at Madeline.

  “When did FitzHerbert learn that Gerald is not his son?” Stephen asked. “Was it the letter from the priory?”

  “What makes you think he is not?” Lady Aleusa asked.

  “Both Lady Isabel and Lady Madeline were at Langley Priory at the same time, and delivered their babies close together,” Stephen said. “But one of them was still born.”

  “That is true,” Lady Aleusa said carefully. “It was a sad time for Alfred and Madeline.”

  “But Lady Madeline’s baby did not die. It was your child, wasn’t it, Lady Isabel,” Stephen said.

  Isabel’s hands clutched together, her lips tightened and her eyes closed. But she did not nod nor speak.

  “And the prior wrote to Sir Rogier,” Stephen went on, “expressing his condolences at that baby’s death. A poor little girl.”

  “This is nonsense,” Lady Aleusa said.

  Stephen took the linen rag from the servant girl’s shoulder. He held it to his nose, then passed it over his shoulder to Gilbert. “Does it not smell of mother’s milk?”