The Girl in the Ice (A Stephen Attebrook mystery Book 4)

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The Girl in the Ice (A Stephen Attebrook mystery Book 4) Page 12

by Jason Vail


  Mike got to his feet and shambled away without another word.

  Stephen held out the little cross to the boy. “Go home. Say nothing about this.”

  “I’m not to call the watch?”

  “No. Tell no one.”

  “Not even to my lady?”

  “Yes, she’ll need to know. But otherwise, no one. Understand?”

  “Yessir.”

  “Do you? Your life may depend on your silence. If Perceival FitzAllan connects you with this incident, he’s as liable to kill you as a stray dog.”

  The boy gulped and nodded vigorously.

  Stephen sheathed his dagger. “Which way to the quay?”

  The boy pointed north, in the direction of the castle. “There is a gap in the wall not far from here. A corridor leads down to the river. Knock on the gate.” He fumbled in his purse and held out a few coins. “These are to get you through the gate and should be enough to hire a boat this time of night.”

  “Thank you.”

  “Thank our lady.”

  “Thank you for saying nothing.”

  The boy ducked his head and hurried off toward Margaret’s house in a wavering cone of candlelight.

  Chapter 16

  Stephen did not mention to Gilbert what had happened until they woke in the morning.

  “I told you that woman was trouble!” Gilbert wailed when Stephen finished with his story.

  “She had nothing to do with it. It was FitzAllan’s work. He still has hard feelings about our gaolbreak and that thumping I gave his fellows at Clun.”

  “Have you given no thought how they found you there? Who’s to say that her house is not being watched? You could be connected with . . . with . . . treason! Not to mention murder!”

  “It was self-defense.”

  “You know that doesn’t matter to the law. You’ll be arrested — why, I could be arrested merely on suspicion because I am your companion. Then we’ll have to petition for a pardon, and you know how hard those are to get. We’ll be ruined. At best we’ll have to abjure the realm if they don’t find an excuse to hang us. I don’t fancy becoming acquainted with a strip of rope, or having to live in foreign parts among foreigners. They are so foreign.”

  Gilbert climbed out of bed and raked his hands over the fringe of gray hair surrounding his bald dome in an unsuccessful effort to smooth it down. The first thing he put on was his cap, which helped, but not much. He looked very odd clad only his braies and cap. “We cannot remain here,” he said urgently. “We must be away.” He began throwing on his clothes while at the same time repacking his satchel. “What are you doing? Get moving!”

  “I am moving,” Stephen said, still under the covers. “Just a little more slowly than you.”

  “Damn it,” Gilbert said, now almost fully dressed and fully packed, “think this through. Anyone outside in that district after dark will be suspect. This gatekeeper you had to bribe, he’ll remember you. So will that ferryman. A few inquiries of the folk on this island will lead directly here. In any moment, the sheriff’s men will be knocking on the door asking after you.”

  “I doubt they’ll be here before breakfast,” Stephen said, getting out of bed at last. There was sense in what Gilbert said. They could not remain here.

  “Yes,” Gilbert murmured. “Breakfast. We’ll have to miss that, I’m afraid. A pity. I was so looking forward to it. More’s the pity — we shall never find out now who the girl in the ice was.”

  It was a sign of Gilbert’s agitation that he was willing to forgo breakfast, although he managed to secure a quarter loaf and cheese before they rode away from the inn.

  They were munching on the bread when they reached the crossroads below the southern bridge off the island. The main road, the one that lead to Ludlow, was the left fork, but Stephen took the right one, which gave way to a path that ran along the river.

  “Where are you going?” Gilbert called out. “Home’s that way.”

  “We’re not going home.”

  “What are we doing?” Gilbert asked as he came up beside Stephen, looking as uncomfortable as ever in the saddle.

  “Changing residences.”

  “This is not wise.”

  “But necessary. We aren’t giving up.”

  “Oh dear. And I thought I had brought you to your senses. Oh dear, oh dear, oh dear.”

  It was a slow, pleasant ride along the south bank of the Severn, despite the chill and the bare, leafless trees that lined the road and covered the steeply rising ground to the south. A few fishing boats were already out on the river, some with nets, others with poles, and the fishermen waved to them as they passed. As they reached the bend where the river turned north, a barge came into view, its goods covered by a tarp. Boys sitting on top of the tarp waved until the steersman yelled at them to get down and mind the oars. It was almost possible to forget their troubles in this peace, but only just.

  Presently, Gilbert pointed out with interest the low buildings of an Augustine friary, which consisted of only a collection of timber and thatch houses just outside the town’s western wall, since they hadn’t enough money yet to build a church. No one was about, but there were a few pigs in view, snuffling in the leaves.

  Before long, they reached the village of Frankeville, which lay across the river northwest of Shrewsbury on the road to Wales.

  Stephen found another inn among the shops of leatherworkers, which stank worse than the potters of Coleham, and lodged there. Unfortunately, they got no bed, even though it was morning, merely straw mattresses in a corner of a room they had to share with an apprentice glover and a draper’s clerk.

  The clerk found Stephen a boy to carry a letter to Margaret saying that it was not safe for him to come to her and that she should send the things she had promised to provide.

  Margaret came herself the next day, accompanied by her man James, without the horse and other goods. She sat in the inn’s front room, which was too cramped to be called a hall, removed her gloves, and said with amusement and exasperation, “Stephen, how is it you manage to attract so much trouble?”

  “It is not new trouble. It is old trouble.”

  “You have irritated Perceival FitzAllan? My boy said there was a price on your head. You’ve only been back a few months. How did you manage that?”

  “You hadn’t heard? I thought you were FitzSimmons’ master spy.”

  “Please! Spies are little people we send out to hear rumors.”

  “Didn’t hear that one, did they?”

  Her eyes narrowed. He’d succeeded in angering her. For some reason, there was some satisfaction in that. “I cannot hear everything. Tell me the story. I must know. It affects my affairs, and I will not be left in the dark.”

  Briefly, Stephen told Margaret about having been sent to the friary at Clun to investigate the death of a monk, and of the bitter dispute between the prior and Earl Perceival, and how he had been drawn into it.

  “So,” Margaret said, “the earl dislikes you because you took sides against him?”

  “I badly handled two of his men after they beat up Gilbert.”

  “Oh. I hope he’s all right.”

  “He’s fully mended, thank you.”

  “And,” she asked slowly, “you haven’t said anything to anyone about me?”

  “Other than to wistfully remember how beautiful you are, no.”

  Her lips twitched as if they wanted to smile but she held them in check. “So Earl Perceival has no reason to think that your attendance at my house was any more than a romantic fancy?”

  “If he does not hear about your other guests. Anyone with half a mind might connect you to the barons’ party then.”

  “It was a risk I had to take.”

  “Better you should have met them in the country.”

  Margaret’s lips tightened at the rebuke. It seemed she was not used to that from men. “What do you know about the business of intrigue?”

  “I’ve been learning a lot lately.”


  “Now about this fellow last night,” Margaret said, referring to Mike. “You believe him? FitzAllan is not our culprit?”

  “So it would seem.”

  “Damn!” she said, the curse falling so naturally from her lips at that moment that Stephen was not startled by it, although for a highborn woman to swear in a man’s company was almost unheard of unless they were married. “I had been sure it was him!”

  “I was sure of it, too, if that’s any comfort. But being sure doesn’t mean being right, unfortunately.”

  “What do we do now?”

  “Now? We go on.”

  “You suspect another?”

  “I have some names. They could be the ones you seek. But they are small men. Where is my new horse and gear?”

  “Walter is coming by a separate route. He’ll be along shortly. What is it in your mind to do, Stephen? This smacks of some sort of disguise.”

  “It is. Since I have to go into Clun honor to ask your questions, it is better that I do not do so as myself.”

  She grasped both his hands and squeezed hard. Stephen almost started at the unexpected gesture. She said, “After last night, be careful. Come back to me safe and whole.”

  Margaret stood up abruptly and marched toward the door. Her man James held back a moment, regarding Stephen with hooded eyes, and followed her into the street.

  Chapter 17

  Walter arrived not long afterward with the horse, the clothes, and the bow and arrows. Stephen had specified that the clothes must be well worn and of a kind owned by an itinerant soldier, and he was not disappointed, except there was no undershirt or braies, and he had to use his own. These were of good linen, though quite frayed in spots, and were a cut above what an ordinary soldier would wear, but since he could not do without them and they would be covered up by the tunic, coat, and stockings, he retained them.

  Walter also supplied a bed roll. Stephen untied the roll to familiarize himself with the contents: two blankets, an extra tunic, and a small cook pot in the middle.

  As he retied the roll, there was pounding at the door: the draper’s clerk who wanted in.

  “I’m busy!” Stephen said. “Go away!”

  “It’s my room too!” the clerk called through the door. “If you don’t open the door right now, I’m going for the landlord!”

  “Complain all you like. I won’t be here long!”

  Dissatisfied with the answer, the clerk could be heard retreating down the hallway.

  “Is it all satisfactory?” Walter asked, pretending not to notice Stephen’s left foot, which was missing from the arch forward, as Stephen put on his boots to complete his transformation from poor knight to poor archer.

  “Well done,” Stephen said, the bow in its cloth bag on his shoulder. “Do I look the part?”

  “I wouldn’t hire you,” he grinned, “but those fools might. Are you sure you can shoot that thing?”

  “Well enough to put food on the table.”

  Walter chuckled. “Well you won’t be expected to do that.”

  “I’ll say I fancy picking knights off their horses.”

  “That should impress them, if it’s true.”

  “It’s truer than your aim with a crossbow.”

  “You were moving. It’s hard to hit a moving target.”

  “Yes, especially one only six feet away.”

  Stephen rolled up his own clothes and mail, which he put in a bag with his helmet. He handed the bag and shield to Walter. “Ask our lady to keep this safe until I return. Along with my horse.”

  “If you don’t come back, can I have them?”

  “That will be Lady Margaret’s decision. But I have a son. He should benefit if I don’t return.”

  “I think we’ll see you again. I well remember the fight at Will Thumper’s house — and the boy told me how you handled those three last night. You’re hard to kill.”

  “I told him to keep his mouth shut. Speak to him for me again, will you? Before he blabs to the whole town.”

  “I’ll see to it, my lord.”

  “Don’t talk like that. I’m not a lord.”

  “I’ll see to it, Sir Stephen.”

  They shook hands, and Walter departed.

  Stephen slung the arrow bag and bedroll from his shoulders, and went down to the yard, passing the clerk and the innkeeper on the stairs. They gaped at his transformation and the fact that he was leaving without having spent the night.

  Gilbert was waiting for him by Margaret’s horse, bewildered as Walter led Stephen’s mare and all his arms but for his sword out of the yard. “What’s going on?”

  “I have to go into Clun honor.”

  “Whatever for?” Gilbert gasped in horror. “Not that business at Onibury, surely!”

  “Yes. Also Margaret has hired me to determine who burned Bromptone’s barn. I believe there is a connection.”

  Gilbert took Stephen’s face in his hands. “Your wits are addled, boy. Give this up. I thought we had agreed to stay as far away from Clun honor as possible. Besides, haven’t you established that FitzAllan is not behind these troubles?”

  “It may not be FitzAllan, but there are two others who may be involved.”

  “And what am I do to, wait and pine for you?”

  “You might repair to the abbey church and light a candle for our inquiry. I know you want to visit there anyway. Oh, and you could find Bill Sharpe and the maid. Find the maid and we’ll know who the girl in the ice was, and why she died. You can manage that alone, can’t you? Or should we have brought Harry along to help?”

  “I am more than enough for that chore, I assure you. Although I hope the sheriff’s men don’t catch up with me before I finish.”

  “I doubt anyone will be looking for you. In any case, I think we’ve covered our tracks enough that that won’t happen.”

  “It’s not me I’m worried about, you young fool. It’s you.” Gilbert sighed. He rummaged in this belt pouch and produced a small knife whose sheath dangled from a leather thong.

  “What’s this?” Stephen asked.

  “I suspected you’d have some wild plan like this in mind. I bought you this.” Gilbert extended the knife.

  Stephen removed the knife from the sheath. The blade and tang were stout, thicker than usual.

  “I thought it would be useful if you ever have to dig your way out of gaol again,” Gilbert said. He motioned to his neck. “You wear it around your neck. I saw a Norwegian fellow carrying his knife that way once. It seemed odd, but practical.”

  “I see.” Stephen lowered the thong over his head.

  “You’re supposed to keep it under your shirt out of sight. In case you get arrested again. No one will think to look for a knife there. It will certainly be more comfortable, not to mention useful, than hiding a knife in your shoe like last time.”

  Stephen was about to stuff the sheath inside his shirt when he had a sudden thought. He took the dandelion ring from his belt pouch, undid the thong, and fed the leather strip through the ring. He retied the thong. “This will keep both safe.”

  “There are cut purses everywhere,” Gilbert said in a tone that suggested he thought this precaution was more than necessary, “even in the wilds of Clun, I’m sure. Well, off you go. I best get busy. Finding missing maids is hard work, and I want to get started early.”

  They said no more, nor even shook hands.

  Stephen climbed aboard the replacement horse. He was about to turn the horse when he had a thought, something that he had neglected. He pulled the folded picture of the girl in the ice from his belt pouch. He had forgotten about it. He handed the drawing to Gilbert, along with the shard of wood with the dandelion sign, the fragment of one of the Saltehuses’ salt barrels he had recovered at the site of the murders. “You’ll need these more than I will.”

  Gilbert unfolded the picture and gazed at that immaculate face. “Ah, so I will. A lovely image. Truly lovely. Such a pity, such a waste.” He shook a finger at Stephen. “Stay out of
trouble, do you hear? Oh, what am I saying! You can no more stay out of trouble than any schoolboy! Be gone before I’m tempted to pull you off that horse, for your own good!”

  “Find the maid,” Stephen said, sorry that he had given away the picture.

  He turned the gelding at last, and rode out of the yard.

  Gilbert did not turn away until Stephen was lost from sight around the corner.

  Chapter 18

  There were two good roads into Clun honor, but Stephen took the one through Bishop’s Castle, which led close to Welsh lands. This hilly country might as well have been Wales itself, for it was full of Welsh people, distinguishable from the English by their bowl haircuts and the fashion of their tunics, which hung to the knees.

  Being Welsh had not spared many of them from the ravages of the winter war. Here and there along the way, Stephen rode through villages that had been burned and pillaged by their Welsh neighbors to the west. Some villages were deserted, consisting only of piles of ashes capped with crusts of snow, the smell of smoke still in the air among charred timbers projecting skyward, stray dogs their only inhabitants. In a few, there were plenty of people living among the ruins in shanties and tents, some of the shelters just heaps of branches leaning against a horizontal pole with a fire in front for warmth. While in others, so much rebuilding was already underway that it was hard to tell that war had washed over the place.

  Everywhere, the folk regarded him with suspicious eyes. Even in the best times, strangers — especially armed ones — were not to be trusted. But the hostility seemed more acute than usual, and Stephen spoke to none of them, glad not to have to share their misery and fear for the future.

  Stephen reached Bishop’s Castle late in the afternoon after a long, slow ride. He was happy to see that the town was intact, not a window smashed or roof stove in. It was odd how the Welsh picked their targets: one prosperous village might be destroyed while those only a mile or two away escaped unhurt, and so it was with towns. Clun had been burned, but Bishop’s Castle only six or so miles away looked completely normal, as if there had been no war at all.

 

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