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

by Jason Vail

  “What of it?” The cook had followed to stand over Stephen, apparently suspicious that he might try pilfering a handful of salt.

  “I think I’ve seen this mark before. Down south.”

  “Take your pinch and close it up,” the cook said.

  Stephen broke the quarter loaf in half, spread butter on both halves with his finger, and sprinkled a pinch on the butter under the cook’s watchful eye. He closed up the barrel and returned it to the shelf.

  He stood up, leaned against a table, and bit into the bread. It was stale, but if he held it in his mouth, it softened enough to be edible. He wanted to keep this conversation going to find out what the cook might say about where the barrel came from, but he couldn’t think of anything that didn’t sound out of place or like prying.

  “What about that cheese?” Stephen asked.

  “Over there,” one of the boys at the tubs said, drying his hands on a rag.

  The indicated cheese, just a bit bigger than his fist, probably wasn’t one served in the hall, for there was a good bit of mold on it, but Stephen scraped that off with his utility knife. “Can I have the lot?”

  “I suppose,” the cook said, apparently unhappy that Stephen had even got his bread, but now that his hands were on the cheese and he’d even taken a bite out of it as if it were an apple, further resistance did not seem profitable. “Get on now. Can’t you see we’re busy here? It’s late.”

  Stephen did not move from his place by the table. He bit into the bread again. “Tastes like sea salt,” he said. Some salt was mined, some came from the sea. Some people reckoned that they could tell the difference.

  “Only the best for our lord,” the cook said.

  “Where’d he buy it?”

  “You dimwit, he didn’t buy it. Now get the hell out of here. We’ve still got a lot of work to do.”

  Stephen had been certain that the cook’s revelation Pentre hadn’t bought the barrel of salt was as good as a confession that he’d stolen it, but as he waited for Edmund to come out of the hall for his lesson, he realized that he had leaped to another conclusion. He needed more, and he could think of only two places where confirmation could be found.

  Edmund was no more interested in this lesson than he had been in the last one. He was listless, responding to instructions and making his parries in a slump-shouldered, haphazard way, except for one time when they free-played and Stephen tapped him hard on the shoulder. Edmund took his singlestick in two hands and ferociously attacked, striking wildly and hard, forcing Stephen to backpedal, sidestep, and duck to avoid being hit. When Edmund at last ran out of energy, Stephen said, “That’s enough for today.”

  Edmund threw down his singlestick and stalked out of the tower.

  Stephen collected the sticks and put them up in the hall with the other practice weapons, and strolled toward the gate. Edgar wasn’t in sight, so there was a good chance he might get away without being told to do something.

  “Where you going?” the soldier on gate ward demanded as he passed through the main gate.

  “I’ve a few farthings,” Stephen said. “I’ve a fancy for a woman.”

  “They’ll cost you more than a farthing!”

  “What is this, London?”

  “They charge like it is,” the soldier said with some envy that Stephen could afford their prices and he could not.

  Stephen came to the crossroads where the oak grew in the center and paused to look around. He had no idea which house held the village whores. The alehouse to his right and behind him was a good suspect. In warmer weather, unoccupied girls would be outside as much to advertise the business as to seek their leisure. But this was winter, so if they were there, the girls were probably huddled about the fire. Also, many taverns and inns that offered whores with their ale had a yellow stripe painted above the door, although that was not always the case, and this alehouse lacked such a marking.

  Anyway, it wasn’t whores he wanted; it was the village priest. Whores were sure to talk about any unusual inquiries he might make, since they loved gossip as much as anyone, but a priest would not if handled right.

  He already knew that the village church lay across the Redlake, so he took the road south. It curved to the left and after about fifty yards, crossed the brook at a wooden bridge where three small boys were throwing pebbles at a block of wood as it floated by. He could see the church, surrounded by a graveyard, before he reached the bridge. It was an old stone church that lacked a bell tower or steeple, and, covered with ivy that was climbing upon the roof, it looked as though it had been there for centuries. The entrance was on the south side rather than the west where a window stood between two projecting stone buttresses, and he had to pass down the road to reach the path to it, for the road was sunken below the level of the churchyard by as much as three feet, and it would have been undignified to clamber up that embankment and cut across the yard.

  An awning had been set up beside the door, and beneath it a stone cutter was working on a cross, inscribing an exotic design, leaves of ivy scrolling up the sides. He wasn’t chiseling as Stephen drew up, but studying the design as if deciding what to do next.

  “Is the priest about?” Stephen asked.

  “The house next door,” the stone cutter said, twirling the chisel in his fingers.

  “This for the lady?”

  The stonecutter nodded.

  “I don’t see a grave here.”

  “It’s just to remember her by. Now go away. I’m busy.”

  Stephen went round the church to a substantial house overlooking the brook and the path that ran along it. He knocked on the door and waited. A boy of about twelve answered.

  “I’m looking for the priest.”

  “Papa!” the boy yelled over his shoulder. “Someone’s here for ya!”

  The boy shut the door, and Stephen heard some thumping around behind it. It opened for a man whose back was so bent that the top of his naturally bald head only came up to Stephen’s armpit. The hair surrounding that dome was white as a summer cloud and wispy. The face was lined, with fans of wrinkles spreading from the corner of sharp green eyes. Stubby bare toes projected from beneath the hem of his habit. He grasped the doorjam, as if he might fall on his face without that support.

  “He likes to call me papa,” the old man said. “After the pope, you know. His little joke.”

  “Who?”

  “My servant. Now, he isn’t important. What’s important is who you are.”

  “I’m new here.”

  “That’s pretty plain. I know everyone for twenty miles around. What’re you doing here?”

  “I’ve just been hired on by Lord Eudo Walcot.”

  “Ah, you’re one of those boys, are you? Yes, you have the look about you, I suppose. Terrible times, these are, terrible times. Wolves everywhere and not all of them walking on four legs.”

  “Father,” Stephen said, “can you spare a few minutes to hear a confession?”

  “A few moments? I’ve no doubt it will take most of the day, and I haven’t a whole day to listen to a tale of woe. Nor the interest, if the truth be known. But all right. Wait a moment ’til I get something on my feet.”

  He came out, shut the door, and headed off toward the church, moving surprisingly fast, alabaster ankles almost a blur beneath the hem of his brown habit.

  At the church door, he said to the stonecutter, “Not done yet? You might get more accomplished if you actually, you know, chipped some stone.”

  “It’s not all about chipping,” the stonecutter said. “It’s as much as about thinking how to chip.”

  “So you say, so you say. I know it’s hard, especially when you’re getting paid by the day,” the priest said. “Just be sure to clean up after yourself.”

  “You said that yesterday.”

  “And you did nothing yesterday. One of my parishioners cut her toe on one of your shards. If she dies of it, I’ll be after you.”

  “You’re making that up.”


  “Just see that there’s no debris.” He turned to Stephen. “Quit your gawking. This way.”

  The priest entered the church with Stephen at his heels. As Stephen expected it was dark and cold inside, and deserted.

  The priest led the way to the right toward an indentation that must be the church’s nave, where there was a bench before the window. He sat down on the bench. Stephen hesitated, because the church was so small and the window open, that anyone could hear what he was going to say, and that included the stonecutter, who must be in earshot.

  “What are you waiting for?” the priest asked.

  “Nothing,” Stephen said, settling onto the bench beside the priest.

  The priest closed his eyes. “You can start any time you like.”

  “For give me, Father, for I have sinned.”

  “Te absolvo. Is that it?”

  “No. There’s more.”

  “Well, get on with it. I’m likely to fall asleep at this rate.”

  “A week ago, I killed two men.”

  That brought the priest’s eyes open. “Only two?”

  “Only two recently.”

  “Ah.”

  “They attacked me.”

  “I’m sure. Murder is never anyone’s fault. Where did this happen, if you will pardon the question, as it’s not strictly my business? Not anywhere in Clun honor, I hope.”

  “No.”

  “Good. The earl has little patience for lawbreakers in his lands.”

  “I also took this.” Stephen held out the dandelion ring, which he had removed from the thong for this purpose. He watched the priest closely for any sign of recognition.

  “A nice bauble. Did you kill anyone to get it?”

  “No.”

  “And you stole it, I suppose.”

  “Not exactly.”

  “How does one not exactly steal?”

  “I found it.”

  “Now we are getting somewhere. And it belongs to somebody else.”

  “Yes.”

  “And you know who that someone is, of course.”

  “Not exactly.”

  “Is this a confession or a game of riddles?”

  “I found it under the body of a young woman.”

  The priest was quiet now. He stroked his lips. “There was a young woman who had a ring like that one,” he said finally.

  “Who was she?”

  “Why do you want to know?”

  “So that I can return it to her family.”

  The priest slapped his spindly thighs. “That is one of the worse lies I’ve ever heard.”

  “I will return it to its rightful owners. I swore an oath to do so.”

  “Really? A strange thing to swear an oath about. Where did you find this ring?”

  “In Ludlow.”

  The priest bowed his head and nodded, muttering to himself, “It could be. It really could be.” He raised his head. “And you think she came from here?”

  “I thought she might.”

  “I wonder what made you think that.” The priest took the ring and examined in the light from the window. “The boys at the castle said this ring was cursed.” He handed it back. “You best find its rightful owner before the curse gets you.”

  “And the girl’s name?”

  The priest sighed. “Her name was Marjory Sharp. A pretty girl. A pity to hear that she is dead.”

  “She was,” the priest said, having forgotten that they were in confession, “the maid to Lady Rosamond, Pentre’s unfortunate wife. The pair of them disappeared in November. Said they were coming here, but they never showed their faces at my doorstep.”

  “You’re sure it was Marjory Sharp?”

  “She showed me the ring herself. Said that Pentre had given it to her after his wife spurned it when she found out how it was acquired.” He held his hand to his mouth, which held far more teeth than you’d expect for a man of his advanced age. “That was a secret. I’ve said too much. I’m near to breaking my vows. You are a clever one!”

  “How did Pentre get it, I wonder?”

  “Oh, that’s easy. He stole it, though if you want me to get into the wheres and hows of that I’ll have to break my vows, and I can’t do that. I’ve heard a week’s worth of confessions on that one!” He added, “It’s not something they like to talk about, though. Terrible business, sad business. Do you have anything more you want to tell me? I’ve done far too much talking when I should be listening.”

  Ralph returned just before midday. Stephen recognized him as the man he’d spoken to on the way in who, with several other bowmen, had escorted the wagons to Clun. The wagons were not so heavily laden now, holding only a few casks of wine, bolts of cloth, and stacks of leather — and a chest. Nonetheless, there was a lot of shouting and excitement when Ralph and his wagons arrived, and the men crowded around the wagon with the chest so that Pentre and his steward had to force their way through. Pentre climbed on the bed of the wagon and opened the chest, confirming for everyone that it was filled with silver coins, more money than Stephen had seen since he had been assigned in Spain to escort an entire army’s payment.

  “You counted it yourself?” Pentre asked Ralph.

  “Better count it again!” someone shouted. “Ralph has trouble when he runs out of fingers!”

  “It’s all there,” Ralph said, ignoring the insult, since it was not meant seriously.

  “It better be,” Pentre said.

  “He’s probably hiding some up his ass!” another man shouted.

  “I’ll hide some up your ass, Humbert!” Ralph said to the man who’d spoken.

  “Enough,” Pentre said. He motioned to the steward, “Count our shares, then pay the men.”

  The steward counted out substantial stacks of silver pennies. He slid one stack across the truck bed to Walcot, who swept the pennies into a cloth bag, which he handed to Edmund. The steward put the other stack in a cloth bag which he’d brought with him, Pentre’s share no doubt, and then began counting smaller stacks which he laid out one beside the other. He called out the names of the archers, who came forward, more orderly and quiet now, when they heard their names to claim their wages. The steward startled Stephen by calling his name as well, and handed him four pennies. “For two days,” the steward said, in a tone that suggested he had not really earned it. “Don’t look so disappointed. It’s enough to get you laid, if you fancy that. You’ll get the rest when you finish the week like everyone else.”

  When the steward had given out all the shares, Pentre said, “Now we eat! Unless there are some of you who’d rather visit our house of ladies. Not that we mind, there’ll be more for the rest of us!”

  No one budged toward the gate, unwilling to pass up the luxury of wild game.

  “What a sad bunch,” Pentre said. “You put your stomachs before your dicks.” He jumped from the wagon and led the men into the hall.

  The cooks had labored since before dawn to prepare supper, and it was everything everyone had anticipated: roasts, pies, soups, stuffed breads, pastries, and stews that servants carried into the hall on trays laid on boards, and they could not serve fast enough. There was even fish, not salted but baked, for those with reservations about meat, although from what Stephen could see, those few who took the fish mixed it with the other delicacies that were available. The aromas alone were enough to make a hungry man swoon, though if you did that, your neighbor would eat your portion before you opened your eyes again.

  The hall was crowded and noisy, and almost choking with smoke from the hearth, its fumes prevented from escaping through the roof hole by a down draft. The haze formed slanting bright shafts of light from the windows.

  Stephen could barely make out the people at the high table for the haze, but he noticed one man leave his place and kneel by Pentre and Walcot. The three glanced in Stephen’s direction and the man who had gone to speak to the two knights even pointed in his direction.

  “Who’s that fellow?” Stephen asked the archer on his right.r />
  “That’s Hudd. He’s our guide.”

  “Guide?”

  “Shows us to the targets. We’ll be going on a raid soon. More fun that lolling around here, that’s for sure.”

  “He’s not from around here, is he?”

  “Na. From Clun. Only comes down when FitzAllan has decided where he wants us to go.”

  From Clun. The words rang an alarm in Stephen’s head. He rose.

  “Where you going?”

  “I’ve got to take a piss.”

  “He can’t hold his ale,” the archer said to the man on the other side.

  “Do you think he’ll mind if I finish that soup?” the other man said, eying the bowl at Stephen’s place.

  Stephen was on the far side from the door and had to work his way around the low end of the hall to reach it. As he approached the door, however, he saw it was too late. Pentre and Walcot were coming toward him, backed by three archers they had collected along the way. They all had daggers drawn, and their faces were set and hard.

  “Going somewhere?” Pentre asked as they met at the door.

  “Got to take a piss.”

  “Your name’s not Wistwode,” Pentre said.

  “What if it isn’t?” Stephen said, hoping that he might still bluff his way, but with dread in his heart.

  “It’s Attebrook, Stephen Attebrook.”

  “Who says that?”

  “Hudd here says so. He knows you.”

  “I’ve never met the man.”

  “We’ve never been introduced,” Hudd said over Pentre’s shoulder, “but I know you as well as my sweetheart.”

  “Let’s hope not that well,” Pentre said.

  “You’re Attebrook,” Hudd said. “I saw you plain when we arrested you. Last autumn, it was. At the priory of Saint Augustine at Clun.” He then asked Pentre earnestly, “I’ll share in the reward, won’t I, lord?”

  “That’s only fair,” Pentre said.

  Chapter 23

  The castle had no gaol, so they marched Stephen up to the tower, tied his hands and feet, and strung him from a rafter using the same iron ring that Edmund had used to suspend the cat, so that he could not sit down. This must be where Pentre liked to keep his prisoners, trussed to iron rungs, for there were half a dozen at various heights beside the door. They went away, and Stephen thought with relief that this would be the end of things, that they’d leave him here like this, which would be terribly uncomfortable in a while to be sure, until they bundled him off to Clun for eventual presentation to Earl Perceival.