by Jason Vail
The fellow in charge of the horses suffered Stephen’s attentions for a few moments, but soon lost his patience. “Lay off there, you,” he snapped.
“I am doing no harm,” Stephen said mildly. “I have business here, same as you, and you are blocking my way to the shop.”
“If she bites off your fingers, I don’t want to hear you crying about it. She’s got a temper.”
“No more than I have,” Stephen said, pushing the horse’s muzzle away from his face.
The driver spat into a puddle to show how much regard he had for Stephen’s temper. He said, “Mike — trouble.”
The fellow addressed as Mike turned from the shop window. “See him off,” he said.
“He ain’t going off. Says he’s got business here.”
Mike frowned at Stephen, and for an instant, his eyes widened as if in surprise and recognition, although Stephen was at a loss to say if they had ever met before. His lips pursed as he weighed what to do next. “He’s gentry, boys,” he said to the other men, and then to Stephen: “We’ll be out of the way in a few moments. Hope you don’t mind waiting.”
“Not at all,” Stephen said.
Mike wasn’t wrong about his estimate. A few more bundles came out of the window and found their way into the cart, and then the driver mounted the right lead horse, and the wagon lurched off up the hill toward the north gate, trailed by the men. Mike and the driver exchanged intense whispers as they drew away and cast glances back at Stephen.
The shop was like many others of its kind: a tall, narrow house with a large window in the front beside the door, distinguished by its green-painted timbers. Meanwhile, whoever occupied the shop had closed the window against the chill.
Stephen hesitated, knocked on the door, and when a gravely voice called, “Come in!” he pushed it open. A passage forward led to the hall of the house. He did not go there, but turned into the shop on the left, where a man was seated on a bench wrapping string about the end of an arrow shaft painted yellow with red stripes to secure three shaved goose feathers to one end. He was balding and bearded, the beard, streaked with gray, making his face appear square and broad, and older than he probably was. His fingers were short and blunt, and did not seem up to the delicate work in which they were engaged. The shop smelled of glue, dog, and a person needing a bath.
“What do you want?” the man asked, as if Stephen’s appearance was an imposition rather than an opportunity. Like the Ludlow fletchers, the advent of war had increased his business beyond his capacity to meet it. Bundles of finished arrows, stacks of stems which were the raw material for shafts, and bags of feathers lay heaped about the little room. With so much to do and backed up orders, he had no interest in more business and so felt no need to be polite.
“Are you Tomkys?”
“That would be me.” Tomkys regarded the painted arrow in Stephen’s belt. “And that looks like one of mine.”
“That’s what I’m here about,” Stephen said, drawing out the arrow and handing it to Tomkys. “Did you make it?”
Tomkys bounced the shaft lightly in one hand, as if assessing its weight. He bent it slightly, sighted along it, and examined the threads holding the fletches in place. “Are you satisfied with it? Do you want more?”
“I’m not in the market for arrows.”
“What did you come for then, as it’s all I have to sell?”
“Information.”
“If it’s gossip you want, you’ll have to inquire elsewhere.”
“Whom did you sell this arrow to?”
“I sell my work to many people. Everyone hereabout has brought from me at one time or another.”
“This would have been to someone in the honor of Clun.”
Tomkys chuckled. “Well, there is the earl. He bought two-thousand a year ago. And another thousand, just now.”
Stephen had expected such an answer and he almost smiled with triumph. Then in his mind he heard Perceival FitzAllan’s voice refuting the charge of murder at court, saying that, with so many arrows laying about his storerooms, available to all his retainers, the fact he had bought some proved nothing. The judge and the jury in this imaginary court nodded their agreement, and everyone shot glances of disapproval in the imaginary Stephen’s direction for bringing such a foolish and unwarranted charge. He could feel himself shriveling with embarrassment in front of the crowd. I must be careful, Stephen reminded himself, I must be very careful. I must have rock-solid proof. “I noticed that the markings on this shaft are a little different than those that you sent out today.”
Tomkys’ eyes drooped as he cast another look at the arrow in Stephen’s hand. “I had an apprentice until a few months ago who marked his arrows that way, three stripes instead of one.”
“He’s no longer with you?”
“He died in the troubles. Killed by the Welsh near Owestry.”
“Ah. I’m sorry.”
“Save your sorrows for his mother. He was a useless boy, always talking back and shirking his work when no one was looking.”
“Did you sell arrows marked with three stripes to Earl Perceival?”
“Of course.”
“Anyone else?”
“Probably. I cannot recall.”
Tomkys went back to his work, unwilling to be distracted by what he regarded as a frivolous conversation, although from Stephen’s perspective lives balanced upon it, not least of which was his own.
Yet he could not avoid the feeling that he had struck another dead end, and feeling the weight of failure, Stephen struggled to think of the one thing that would break the truth loose from its hiding place. But nothing occurred to him. He was not clever like Gilbert or Harry. He could only plod along until he reached whatever goal lay in the gloom ahead. He had gone as far as he could here, and it had come to nothing. Unless someone blurted out the truth while on a binge in some tavern or whispered it in a whore’s ear and she happened to repeat it, there was no way he would solve the mystery of those sad deaths on the Shrewsbury road. He hated not knowing, and he hated his own inadequacy even more.
He was out in the little hallway about to exit to the street when Tomkys spoke up. “Well, there’s two others I remember.”
Stephen stuck his head back in the workshop. “Two?”
“In Clun honor.”
“And?” Stephen asked cautiously, fearful of getting his hopes back up.
“Eudo Walcot for one. Warin Pentre was the other.”
The names meant nothing to Stephen but he nodded, thankful that he had got this much.
“What’s this about, anyway?” Tomkys asked.
“One of them lost this,” Stephen said, indicating the arrow, which he had put back in his belt. “I fancy returning it to the rightful owner.” Whoever that might be.
Tomkys shook his head as if he thought Stephen’s good sense had slipped its tether. “I hope he’ll be glad to see it again.”
“Somehow I think not.”
Chapter 14
The cider the innkeeper’s wife put before Stephen was on the brink of turning sour, but he had drunk worse — muddy water sipped from the remains of a pond in Grenada came to mind, as he nursed the cup. So he did not complain, as he hunched over the cup, the aroma of cabbage and beef wafting out of the kitchen in the rear of the inn.
Stephen heard the door to the street open behind him, but did not turn to see who it was. He assumed another traveler stopping for the night. But a boy of fourteen or so halted at his elbow, and asked, “Are you Stephen Attebrook, sir?”
“He certainly is,” Gilbert answered for him. “Sir Stephen, to you.”
“Yessir.”
“And who might you be and what do you want of Sir Stephen?”
“I am directed to give him this.” The boy held out a note. It was folded with no seal and nothing was written upon the outside that indicated it was for him.
To receive a letter at any time was momentous, but to get one at the place where no one could reasonably suspect yo
u of being was extraordinary. Stephen unfolded the letter and recognized Margaret’s handwriting, for as with her last note she had written it herself, not some clerk.
It read: “From Margaret to Sir Stephen, Greetings. I learned by chance that you have come to Shrewsbury. It would please me greatly if you would come to my house this evening for supper. The boy will conduct you.”
“Good heavens,” Gilbert said, leaning over the table to attempt a look at the note, which Stephen quickly folded. “Who could that be from, I wonder?” His tone said that he did not actually wonder much.
“Nobody.”
“Nobody, my foot!”
“I am invited to supper.”
“This can’t be good. I shall come along. I’m not mentioned there, am I? No matter. I shall come anyway, even if I must languish in the kitchen. That woman is trouble. You will require protection.”
“No, I think not.”
“Stephen, please, reconsider. Look what happened last time. You were nearly killed.”
“I don’t think she has that in mind yet.”
“But you cannot be sure. She is devious and crafty, far more so, I am afraid to say, than you are. At bottom, you are truly a simple soul.”
“I’m going.” Stephen stood up. “Enjoy your supper. That boiled cabbage smells wonderful. See if you can warm my side of the bed, too, later.”
“That assumes you come back. I can think of several reasons why my work in bed may be wasted.”
“Not all of them gruesome.”
“No, regrettably.”
“My lady said I am to show you the way,” the boy said.
Stephen put the note in his belt pouch beside the picture of the girl in the ice, light headed, almost giddy. “Lead on.”
Stephen followed the boy across the drawbridge at the town gate where no toll was demanded when the boy told the warden Stephen was with him, and uphill to Margaret’s house across the street from Saint Mary’s Church.
Someone inside must have been on the lookout for their appearance, for the front door opened as they approached. The fellow holding the door was Walter, the same soldier who, months back, had shot a crossbow at Stephen during his dispute with Margaret over possession of that valuable list. Walter grinned slightly as he said, “Good evening, sir,” an indication perhaps that he wished there would be no hard feelings about the shot. “May I take your cloak and cap?”
Stephen handed them over. Walter, who must double as a butler, hung them on a peg by the door, and said, “My lady is in the hall, sir, anxiously awaiting your arrival.”
“Waiting, but I doubt anxiously.”
“Ah, well, sir, you shall have to gauge her feelings then for yourself.”
During the climb up the hill, Stephen’s giddiness had given way to wariness, and, when he reached the hall, he saw good reason why he should think that Margaret might have other motives than merely the desire of his company. There were four men there besides Margaret: all dressed in split- sleeve embroidered tunics that were the fashion among those who had wealth, two with knee boots of supple leather, their long hair neatly combed and oiled so that it almost shone in the light of the fire in the middle of the room. One of them Stephen recognized immediately: Arnold Bromptone of Wickley Manor, a man with the shoulders of a bear and brown hair and beard flecked with gray, especially at his temples.
Stephen had no idea who the others were, but they were lords, there was no doubt about that. He felt shabby just standing in the same room with them. He was manor born himself, which meant something socially, but he had not inherited and what little he possessed he had lost. So now he was a mere servant of a crown official, and a poorly paid one at that, a fact they were sure to know, and equally sure to look down upon him. In a world where status and pride were so bound up together, Stephen had little status and could therefore afford little pride, although he had come to find that often those with little wealth had more pride than the mighty above them.
Margaret glided across the room, and grasped his hands.
“Thank you for coming on such short notice, Stephen.” Her voice was low and musical, every word sincere, but he was on his guard now. She was more beautiful than he remembered, almost white blonde hair artfully coiled under her wimple, which framed a face so smooth, so sweet, so innocent that no man would ever grow bored gazing at it, nor suspect the steely mind and inflexible purpose that operated behind those blue eyes. No doubt that face had deceived many, himself included.
“My pleasure,” he replied dutifully.
“Is it really?” she laughed. “I hope so.”
“You know that no one can resist you.”
“You did well enough the last time.”
“Only partly.”
“In the most important part,” she smiled. Such a broad smile had the capacity to melt a man’s heart, but Stephen was ready for it and it dented his mental armor only a little.
Margaret guided him to the others, where she performed introductions. There was William de Farlegh, tall and thin-necked; Gilbertus Juste, with nervous hands that were constantly clutching and unclutching each other; John Gardeuille, as handsome a man you could want, although on close inspection his nose was veined and his jowls beginning to sag from perhaps too much devotion to the wine barrel; and last there was Bromptone. The men solemnly shook Stephen’s hand and, surprisingly, without condensation. Bromptone especially seemed glad to see him, for he said heartily, “Good of you to come. We hope you can help.”
Stephen wanted to asked, “Help how?” — his suspicions confirmed that something was up — but Margaret cut in. “Let’s leave such unpleasantness until after supper. Please!”
Of course, no request by the lady of the house could be ignored by a gentleman, so they retired to their seats at the table, while from the rear of the house servants appeared with platters, trenchers, and bowls for a meal as elaborate as any dinner.
“My lady!” Gardeuille leaned back in his chair, as servants carried away the remains of supper. “You certainly know how to stuff a man to his gills!” He swirled his wine cup and held it out for a refill without glancing at the servant who hastened to replenish the cup.
“I am glad you enjoyed it,” Margaret said.
“However, I for one have had enough talk of horses and who is bedding whom,” Gardeuille said. “It’s time we got to business.”
“I suppose it is,” Margaret sighed. “Such unpleasantness. So much death and waste.” She shuddered. “I hate to think upon it.” She shot Gardeuille a coquette’s smile. “You are a cruel man to force me to do so, sir.”
“My apologies,” Gardeuille said. “I know our affairs wound your tender nature. But now that your man is here, I can see no reason why we should not discuss them, as there is need. Urgent need.”
“He is not my man,” Margaret said, “I merely said I knew him.”
“I stand corrected,” Gardeuille said.
“I know him as well,” Bromptone said.
“Really?” Gardeuille asked.
“He’s provided assistance to my family in the past.”
“Of the sort of assistance we require now?”
“Something like it.”
“You don’t wish to share the particulars so that we may judge his worth ourselves?”
“It was a private matter,” Bromptone said. “But I will vouch for him, if that is what is required here.”
“I also have some knowledge of his ability,” Margaret said, “otherwise, he would not be here. Sir Nigel would vouch for him as well, if called upon to do so.”
Bromptone smiled. “I heard about that. Sir Stephen here bested FitzSimmons in single combat last fall. They had a falling out.”
Gardeuille looked at Stephen as if in a new light, and the glare was not complimentary. “It is dangerous to fall out with FitzSimmons. Why should we engage him if he is FitzSimmons’ enemy?”
“They have had their differences,” Margaret said, “but they are mended. Aren’t they Stephen?
”
“For my part,” Stephen said. FitzSimmons was a key supporter of the barons gathering around Simon de Montfort, King Henry’s brother-in-law and the man scheming to supplant that weak and vacillating ruler who surrounded himself with avaricious men bent on using the country for their own profit and power. Stephen had killed FitzSimmons’ cousin, and they had been in feud, which he hoped had been resolved by single combat between them.
“It is settled.” A hard note crept into Margaret’s voice. “And if they were not, as you know, I have FitzSimmons’ warrant to do all that is necessary to resolve this desperate business. And if I think Stephen’s help is necessary, that is enough.”
“Help at what?” Stephen asked, dreading the answer.
Stephen expected Margaret to answer that question, but Bromptone spoke up instead. “Stephen, there is trouble in the March —”
“When is there not trouble?” Stephen asked.
“This is not the Welsh, but something more sinister.”
“They can be sinister enough from what I’ve seen,” Stephen said, remembering the smoke rising above the ruins of the border town of Clun, only a few miles southwest of Shrewsbury, which the Welsh had burned in November when he had been sent to the Augustine friary of Saint George just across the river. The friary had burned as well, though its people had been spared, having fled to the forests with their goods and animals.
“That is true.” Bromptone said. “Many have suffered at their hands. But we, we four, have suffered as well, and we believe that the Welsh are not to blame, although many think them to be the culprits.”