by Jason Vail
Gilbert, sniffing the rag, nodded. “It does.”
“What of it?” Lady Isabel asked.
“It is not unknown for women of our class to breast feed their infants, although many women rely on nursemaids for that,” Stephen said. “But is not done for a woman of our class to breast feed another’s child.”
“How fanciful,” Lady Aleusa said. “What makes you think that is happening here?”
“Women who breast feed sometimes have … accidents, leakage, that shows on their clothing,” Stephen said delicately. “I noted the product of such an accident on Lady Madeline’s gown the first day I was at Broadstowe. Then, later, upon inspecting Lady Isabel’s bedchamber, I found that Madeline slept there beside Gerald’s cradle. That made sense. Madeline would want to be near the child when it woke during the night, hungry, perhaps crying and disturbing the house.” He directed his gaze at Madeline. “So, Gerald is your son, isn’t he, Madeline, which you and Alfred have passed off as FitzHerbert’s.” He paused. “Or rather, I should say that Lady Aleusa determined to pass off.”
“We are close family,” Lady Aleusa said. “Lady Madeline kindly offered to nurse Gerald upon the death of her own child. She had the milk to spare.”
Stephen stood behind the girl cradling the baby. He rested a hand on her shoulder. He felt her trembling. It occurred to him that she knew the truth of things as well as anyone here. But he wanted to have it out of the others.
“I suppose that lie might convince a casual inquirer,” Stephen said, “but it is not convincing to me. You see, I have struggled to find a reason for Sir Rogier’s death. There is always a reason for murder, even if it is not a compelling enough one for the rest of us. At first, I thought it was to obtain Montfort’s letter. Then it seemed to be a robbery plot to obtain his traveling money. But neither of those explanations hold any water. Now, I find I am left with but one explanation. And it is one that is compelling. You pressed Sir Rogier to marry in order to produce an heir for the FitzHerbert family. He struggled to do so, given his proclivity, yet managed in the end. Meanwhile, you had brought your own son, Alfred, into your house, where he fell into close association with both Isabel and Madeline, and due to that association, Madeline fell pregnant. It was simple luck that this happened around the same time for each of them. They even delivered about the same time, more luck still. When Isabel’s baby was still born, you hatched the idea to substitute Madeline’s boy, a male heir, for the dead child — a male heir who is a grandson of your blood.”
Lady Aleusa listened without moving.
“But Sir Rogier found out — oh, that bothersome prior,” Stephen said. “Was he fishing for a bequest, do you think? In any case, Sir Rogier summoned you all to explain yourselves. From the sound of things, he was not satisfied with the explanation. Did he threaten to put you out for complicity in this scheme, Isabel, and to denounce the child as not his own?”
“You’ve spoken to the prior?” Lady Aleusa said.
Stephen shrugged and said nothing.
“So,” Stephen said, “we have motive. Yet, there is also opportunity. The baby woke Madeline during the night. She heard voices through the wall, and then there were none when perhaps there should have been. She knew there had been a stranger visiting, who was now gone. Curious, she gets up and peeks in Sir Rogier’s bedchamber. She sees Martin and Sir Rogier in a drugged sleep. She tries to rouse them. And then, inspiration strikes. Here is the perfect opportunity to secure all your fortunes. She wakes Isabel and between them, they strangle Martin and then, using curtain cord, they hang Sir Rogier. Even the two of them, being slight women and Sir Rogier so large, they could not hang him high. But it was enough. They then fashioned a rope using the curtain cord from Isabel’s bedchamber and the remainder of the cord from Sir Rogier’s curtains for Madeline to slip out of the window, using a horse knot to enable her to pull the cord free after she had bolted the door.”
The hall was deathly silent, except for the whisper of the wind through the open windows that stirred the women’s veils. That silence seemed to last a long time.
“If you bring this charge,” Lady Aleusa said at last, “we shall all swear to Gerald’s paternity. The prior was not in the labor room, no man was. So his testimony is of no account, only rumor. I shall confess that Rogier’s death was my doing, and my doing alone. I awoke to find Rogier in the midst of a licentious union. His proclivity was well known, but I could stand the shame no longer, especially for what it might mean for his newborn son. A stain on the family that could not be washed off in any other way. So, do your worst. I am not afraid.”
“No, I don’t think you are.”
“You aren’t going to let him do this, are you?” Ferrand shouted.
“This is the better way, Bertie,” Lady Aleusa said. “Say nothing more.” Her voice snapped with such an air of command that Ferrand flinched.
“There is the matter of the letter,” Stephen said.
“The prior’s letter?” Lady Aleusa asked.
“No, Montfort’s. You have it. I want it.”
“You are clever. It is an incendiary thing, that letter. Have you any idea of its contents?”
“No. Just that it’s important.”
“Men would kill for that letter.”
“They already have. In the name of the King, I demand you hand it over.”
Lady Aleusa sat in thought for some time. “Will you tell Prince Edward that we preserved the letter for him? We intended to bring it to him when Alfred was well enough to travel.”
“I will tell him you willingly handed it over to me.”
“And what about Rogier’s death? What will you say?”
Stephen had been thinking hard about this. If he made a presentment against any of them, the likelihood of obtaining a conviction was slight.
“I will be silent on one condition,” Stephen said.
“It is?”
“Sir Rogier is now buried in consecrated ground. You will do nothing to disturb that. And you will donate sixty pounds in his name to the priory hospital where he lies.” Sixty pounds — the value of two or three manors — was small justice for Sir Rogier, but it would provide a great deal of help to the sick of the parish.
Lady Aleusa’s nostrils flared as she considered this. Then she inclined her formidable head. “That is two conditions, but I agree. Madeline, go fetch the letter for Sir Stephen.”
Chapter 26
“You don’t really believe it was Lady Aleusa’s doing, do you?” Gilbert asked as they rode as hastily as the mule would allow on the road eastward to Bodenham. Stephen had not trusted to the ferry in case Ferrand’s four friends decided to take action despite what had passed between him and Lady Aleusa.
“No,” Stephen said. “The murders were Isabel’s and Madeline’s doing, probably Madeline’s most of all.”
“But we’ll never prove that.”
“No, we won’t. The best we can get is Lady Aleusa’s confession, false as it is. It will have to be enough, I’m afraid.”
Gilbert shook his head. “Aleusa was willing to die so that her grandson can inherit a title to which he is not entitled.”
“And to protect Madeline and Isabel. I would not have thought her capable of it.”
“Why didn’t Hugo find the letter when he ran up to FitzHerbert’s chamber?”
“I imagine that Madeline went straight to the strong box for the prior’s letter. She found two, and in the dark could not tell them apart. While she was there, she heard Hugo coming up the back stairs and hid behind the wardrobe, or some such thing. Then after Hugo left, they carried out their plan.”
Gilbert shuddered. “The cold-bloodedness of it makes me chill. So, what does the letter say?”
Stephen unrolled it on the pommel of his saddle, casting a look behind in case of pursuit. Seeing no pursuit, he read the letter. It was in Latin, but his legal education, brief as it was, afforded him enough Latin to work out the gist. He had read it once, but read it again now.
Even on second reading the contents was shocking.
“Come on,” Gilbert urged. “Let me see it.”
Stephen passed it over.
“Good God!” Gilbert gasped. “I can’t believe it! It’s … it’s treasonous!”
“It certainly smacks of it,” Stephen said. “Or could be seen to be.”
For the letter proposed to offer a series of border fortresses and lands currently in English possession from Owestry in the north to Skenfrith and Ewyas Lacy and beyond in the south to the Welsh in exchange for troops to swell Montfort’s army.
“This will not sit well with the Marcher lords when it becomes known,” Gilbert said.
“No. It may be enough to make them switch sides and join with the King.”
“What are we going to do?”
“I don’t see that we have any choice. We must take it straight to Windsor.”
“You’re sure?”
“I am a sworn man, like or not, regardless of the goodness of the cause.”
“What about Lady Margaret? What about FitzSimmons? What about FitzAllan?”
“I did not promise them anything. I merely promised to look, not to turn over what I found.”
“That is a lawyer’s hair-splitting. I doubt they will see things that way.”
“I suppose not. But that is what I will do.”
“Oh dear. Windsor’s almost as far as London.” Gilbert rose in the saddle to ease a hind end already fatigued. “And you know the way from here so we won’t be taking any wrong turns or getting lost?”
“I know the way.”
Stephen urged the mare into a canter, and for once, the mule took up the same gait without an argument.
It was indeed a long way to Windsor. And they could not lose any time in getting there.
Epilogue
The letter had the effect Stephen anticipated. When Prince Edward published the contents, Marcher lords by the dozens abandoned the reform party and rejoined the King. These defections gave the King hope at a time when his cause seemed lost. Among those going back was Percival FitzAllan.
As a reward for bringing this letter to the Crown, Stephen received a pardon for what he had done concerning a certain Portuguese ship and any deaths that occurred during the event, including that of William Attebrook. The Prince did not settle the problem of Ida’s purported adoption, however. So, ownership of Hafton Manor remained in doubt.
Gilbert, meanwhile, received a purse that went a long way to relieving the money problems at the inn. Edith Wistwode, who did not find out about the illicit book, was grateful for at least a week.
Harry and Joan returned to Ludlow, where Harry resumed his woodcarving business. It was a struggle, but slowly getting better. They were often seen together at the Dinham mill on Sundays after Mass with many other townspeople who liked to enjoy a pleasant autumn afternoon on the green there by the water, and were the subject of considerable gossip.
Matilda and her friends were released from the castle gaol and disappeared, their fellow troupers having long since taken to the highway and left them behind.
Hugo de Norbury was never brought to justice for Geoffrey Curthose’s murder or the burning of his house with the entire staff in it. But one night in early October on Grope Lane, someone slipped a knife between his ribs. The killer was never found.
Despite Stephen’s pardon, neither Ida nor Mistress Bartelot returned to Ludlow. Stephen wrote to FitzAllan demanding they be freed. He received a reply thanking him for his concern, but that they preferred remaining as guests at Clun Castle.
At Hereford, the Black Friars’ Priory received a surprise bequest in Rogier FitzHerbert’s name of sixty pounds to be used at the hospital. The monks were stunned to get it, and put the money to work by constructing a new building for the hospital and a dormitory for families of the patients.
Grass grew over FitzHerbert’s grave and there was no marker upon it. But the following spring, someone planted an oak sapling upon the grave. It thrived and grew mighty in the years to come.