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

by Jason Vail

  Those hopes were dashed, when after a couple of hours, Pentre, Walcot, Edgar, the guide Hudd, and three archers came through the door, trailed by Edmund, who was finishing an apple.

  “Leave the door open,” Pentre said. “It’s dark in here and I want to see the results of our work.”

  “Of course, lord,” Edmund said. He bit on the apple core and tossed it at Stephen.

  “Stop that nonsense, Edmund,” Pentre said.

  Pentre turned his attention now to Stephen. “What are you doing here, Attebrook?”

  “Your man is mistaken.”

  “I am not — I saw you plain, close as this!” Hudd snapped.

  “You’re full of shit.”

  Pentre paced before Stephen, a finger to his mouth, looking like a pedagogue in deep thought before his pupils. He must have had a teacher like that when forced to learn his letters as a child. Pentre stopped pacing. “Whom to believe? This low fellow here, who has the manners of an ox? Or you, who fights too well with a sword? I’ve known common men who were good with a sword, but they never put on as good a show with the singlestick as you did the other day. It takes an uncommon amount of time to achieve that degree of skill, unless you are supernaturally gifted. As supernatural gifts are rare, it has to have come from practice. Which leads straight to the conclusion that you are not who you say you are. Which means you are lying. Why are you lying? To conceal your true identity.” Pentre gestured at Hudd. “He says you are Attebrook. That’s good enough for me. If you aren’t Attebrook, I’m sure the earl will recognize the unfortunate mistake, and set you free. If not? Well, I’ve heard he has other uses for this Attebrook.”

  “And there’s a reward, lord,” Hudd said. “Don’t forget the reward.”

  “How much is it?” Pentre asked.

  “Five pounds, lord,” Hudd said. “Five whole pounds.”

  “Ah, that is quite a lot of money. I could do quite a bit around here with five more pounds. Roofs need patching, armor needs repairing, a few more horses would be useful. Oh, Hudd,” Pentre said at the sight of concern on Hudd’s face, “you’ll get a share of course. A generous share.”

  “Thank you, lord.”

  “You are quite welcome, Hudd. Edgar here will tell you that I do not neglect good service.”

  Edgar nodded. “He don’t. He’s good to us.”

  “I’ve heard that,” Hudd said.

  “It puzzles me,” Pentre went on to Stephen, “why a deputy coroner is skulking here, pretending to be what you are not. It must be very important for you to put on such a masquerade. It’s so demeaning to wear the clothes of a common man. I’ve heard of knights dressing up as women, but never knights dressing up as one of the little people. It’s beyond my understanding. What are you up to?”

  “Nothing,” Stephen said.

  “Attebrook, these denials are tiresome. You might as well tell me.”

  Stephen stayed silent.

  “Very well,” Pentre said. He motioned to Edgar and the archers, who had brought singlesticks. “Let him have a dozen or so. We’ll see if that doesn’t loosen his tongue. Just on the back, mind? And nothing to the head. We don’t want to addle his wits. Just tickle him a bit.”

  “Right, sir,” Edgar said. His face betrayed no expression as he moved behind Stephen with the others in his wake, no sense of enjoyment, as if this was just another job he had been asked to perform.

  Edmund slipped off his barrel. “Can I do him too?”

  Pentre glanced at Walcot, who nodded slightly. Pentre said, “You can take a turn. But mind my instructions.”

  “Yes, lord,” Edmund said with a smile.

  One might think that a blow from a singlestick, which was not much thicker than a man’s thumb, was not to be dreaded, but only if one who had never been cracked with one. There were few things more suitable for delivering a beating than a singlestick. It produced a satisfying blow without breaking bone, and if given in sufficient quantity had a salutary disciplinary effect. Fathers, teachers, and masters all resorted to the wand when a child, pupil, or apprentice needed instruction, and Stephen had received this same attention from all three. None of those beatings, however, had been as furious as the one that now began.

  Two men worked on Stephen at once, hewing at his back as if cutting a tree, the wands flying so fast and with such force that they whistled in the still air. The pain was shocking and intense, worse than anything he had ever suffered, worse even than the moment the Moor had cut off his foot — oddly, that had hardly hurt at all. The axe had gone through his foot as if through a pastry, and his main memory of the event was the ringing of the axe as it struck the stone on which he stood. It had only hurt badly afterward, when Taresa had bandaged him up and corruption had set in. That’s the way it was when you lost a limb: if you didn’t bleed to death it was the corruption that killed you. Yet even that pain was nothing to compare to this.

  Stephen clenched his fists, closed his eyes, and gritted his teeth, determined not to cry out. He had nothing left but pride, and although he knew that torture broke all men in the end, he was determined to sell his pride dearly, and it would not go to these men in this place. If he was to whimper and snivel, it would be later, to a greater man. He thought of Taresa, but her face would not come to him, and this troubled him more than the beating. All he could recall was the great cascade of her black hair and how it had smelled of musk. He remembered how she had held him when he had been close to death, and the comfort he had drawn from it, and how he had held her when she had fallen sick, and how all his efforts to save her had been so weak and futile, and failed her in the end. I’m sorry, he thought. I’ll see you soon, love. Not much longer now.

  There was a pause as the men behind him tired and traded places.

  “That’s more than a dozen,” Stephen said.

  “Is it?” Pentre said. “I’ve not been keeping count.”

  “Should we keep going?” Edgar asked.

  “Let Edmund have a turn. He can hardly hold still back there.”

  The blows that followed fell with longer intervals between them and with less force, but they came lower, on Stephen’s buttocks and thighs, which were more sensitive than his back and so hurt more sharply. Edmund grunted with every swing, as if he was putting everything he had into them.

  At last, Pentre said, “That’s enough, Edmund.”

  One more blow landed. Edmund prodded Stephen in the buttocks.

  “Enough, I said,” Pentre said.

  “I want to see him piss his drawers,” Edmund said.

  “You’ll have to live with the disappointment,” Pentre said. “Now step back.” He put his face close to Stephen’s. “Come, Attebrook. Tell me why you’re here. Otherwise, I’ll be forced to continue. Is it our business?”

  “What business is that?”

  “You know.”

  “I gathered that you’re raiding your neighbors.”

  “There is that. Is that why?”

  “No,” Stephen lied, forgetting that with this answer he had admitted his identity. “Your victims are Montfort’s men. Why should I care about them?”

  “I hope that’s true.” Pentre looked over Stephen’s shoulder at Edgar. “Let him have some more.”

  It was hard to tell how long the beating went on. It seemed like hours, but must have been far less than that. Yet in that time, Edgar and the archers grew weary, and Stephen’s shirt was soaked with blood where the sticks had cut his skin as if he had received the lash. Only Edmund had any enthusiasm left.

  At last, Pentre waved for the men to stop. He said to Stephen, “It was our work, wasn’t it?”

  “No.”

  “It must be important, whatever it was.”

  For Stephen each breath was torture. He whispered, “There was murder on the Shrewsbury road. Near Onibury.”

  “I’ve heard that the road is dangerous. What is your interest?”

  “The family asked me to find out who was responsible.”

  “And
you think I am?”

  “I found an arrow where they died. Like those over there.” Stephen turned his head in the direction of the barrels containing arrows.

  Pentre looked thoughtful, then chuckled. “That’s a thin connection.”

  “I had to be sure.”

  Pentre stepped back. “Well, it wasn’t us. A pity to sacrifice yourself for nothing, isn’t it?” He motioned to Edgar. “You can let him down. We’re finished here. We’ll let the earl have him tomorrow.”

  The men filed out, but Edmund lingered. He kicked Stephen in the back and laughed, then he too went out and shut the door, leaving Stephen in the cold and dark.

  There was nothing Stephen could do until sundown but shiver in the dirt as the blood dried and stiffened on his shirt so that the fabric hardened, gouging his wounds whenever he moved. He was still tied hand and foot, and bound to a post, but at least he could lie down, small comfort that was. The bell for supper rang, but no one brought food or came to check on him, although a servant brought him a blanket.

  “That’s kind of you,” Stephen managed to say.

  “Lord Warin doesn’t want you to freeze to death so there’s nothing for the earl to play with. We don’t get no reward if you’re delivered dead.”

  Daylight dwindled to full dark. The air grew colder. Laughter and song came distantly from the hall. The dogs barked at something. Someone shouted for them to be quiet. He heard the murmur of voices that sounded like men crossing the bailey to the gate tower to mount the night guard.

  At last quiet settled over the castle as the night deepened. Stephen sat up and fumbled under his shirt for the knife hanging on its thong. He cut the ropes binding his feet, rose, and pounded the point of the knife into a support timber. He tried sawing through the cords tying his hands. The knife fell out of the pillar several times and he had to drive it back in, finally holding it there with his chest pressing against the butt to saw through the cords.

  Stephen eased the door open just far enough to slip through. He saw with dismay that the sky had cleared. The night was filled with hard stars and a full moon so bright that it was hard to look at rising above the trees to the southeast. With that moon, it might as well be full daylight. He couldn’t cross the bailey in such light, even with all the shadows cast by the walls and buildings.

  As he made up his mind to go around the tower and scale the walls on the far side, he heard the scrape and thump of footsteps on the stairs leading up from the bailey. Someone was coming. He had only moments before that someone came through the gate of the wall surrounding the top of the motte.

  His first impulse was to run around the tower, but he realized that the person approaching might be a night guard assigned to the top of the tower, in which case the fact he was missing would be immediately discovered and the alarm raised. They’d catch him quick. His second impulse was to hide by the gate and ambush the fellow when he entered. That moment of doubt ate up too much time and the gate swung open.

  A guard armed with spear and sword entered the space at the top of the motte.

  The guard brought down the spear, but Stephen brushed aside the point with his left hand and struck with the utility knife. Puny as it was, it could still kill. The guard, however, knew his business. He dropped the spear and parried the knife, pushing Stephen back to gain space and drawing his own dagger. He struck a return blow and opened his mouth to shout, a call that would be Stephen’s undoing.

  Stephen took the blow on his right forearm, hooking the enemy’s arm with the blade of his utility knife, and jerked downward. The man came forward, off balance. Stephen grasped his shoulder and stabbed him in the back of the neck. The cry of alarm died as a wheeze rather than a shout.

  Stephen knelt over the body, breathing hard, jets of air swirling around his head, back seething with pain, his whole body aching at the monumental effort he had just expended. It had taken everything out of him just to engage in this exchange. The thought of running away seemed beyond him. He just wanted to lie down and rest.

  The fight had made noise, and a voice called from below, “What’s happening up there?”

  Not to answer could provoke an inquiry. Stephen called back, “Nothing. Slipped on the stairs.”

  “Clumsy ass,” the voice from below replied. “Watch yourself.”

  Stephen took the dead man’s cloak, sword, and spear, and went round to the other side of the motte. He clambered over the wall encircling the top of the mound, and slid down the slope to the bottom. There, he rested for a moment, trying to put out of his mind the thousand aches drumming against his consciousness. At last, he mounted the embankment. There was no stair here, and he had to pull himself up to the walk. He rested again, then slipped over the wall.

  He took his bearings from the moon, which had risen far enough to throw down harsh silver light on the fields to the south and east of the castle, with black hills rising in the distance and a black line of trees where the stream should be. He had to cross this open space to get away.

  He forced himself up and walked across the big field toward the east, hoping that no one on the watch would spot him.

  Chapter 24

  After two hundred yards or so, Stephen came upon a road heading out of the village toward the northeast. He was temped to follow it. He could make better time. But he suspected that Pentre might expect him to do this, for it was the easy thing to do in the dark, and a patrol sent this way would surely catch him. So he struck eastward across more fields and through copses until he reached the forest, with the gurgle of the Redlake on his right as a guide.

  Streams meander, which forced Stephen to cover more ground than if he used the moon as a guide and kept straight. But the presence of the stream was comforting. Even with the moon it was possible to veer off toward places you did not intend, and he remembered hearing somewhere that the Redlake ran into the River Clun north of Leintwardine. Beyond the Clun and above Leintwardine, there was a high road that led to Bromfield, which was only a few miles from Ludlow and safety. So he went that way, grimly, one miserable step at a time, running for intervals even though it hurt terribly, then walking to recover. It could not be far, he told himself; three maybe four miles. Not far, but it seemed forever.

  Sometime later, he wasn’t sure how long, he heard the baying of hounds.

  Stephen had just leaped over a small rivlet leading south toward the Redlake when he heard them, far away, a sound almost imagined so that at first, he wasn’t sure he had heard anything. But the wind shifted slightly and the baying came plainly to him, though far away. He had been afraid many times in his life: waiting as the first man in line before a charge into enemy horse; at the slap of scaling ladders against the wall of the castle where he had lost his foot; at the last moments before the duel with Nigel FitzSimmons; when the Welsh fired the pig sty FitzAllan had used as a gaol at Clun. Nothing compared to the panic he experienced now. At all those other times, he’d had a shred of hope to see him through. Now he had none.

  He could not outrun hounds, and the men who would follow them on horses. Yet, he ran anyway. There was nothing else to do.

  The forest fell away to open ground, and the footing grew marshy, sucking at his feet as he stumbled on.

  The baying had drawn closer. He didn’t have much longer. The wet ground might mask his scent from the dogs, but he couldn’t be sure. He turned south and splashed into the Redlake, which was only knee deep, and continued along it for a hundred yards, stubbing the toes of his good foot on the stones beneath the surface.

  He left the stream on the south bank and struck due east away from it, for here the stream turned northeasterly. Maybe this would fool the dogs. Maybe, but not likely.

  The baying grew uncertain, more yelps than eager bellows, which told Stephen that they had lost the scent. He slowed to catch his breath. The rest was only momentary, for the yelping resumed its eager confidence, and he knew they had found the trail again. He ran on.

  The dogs were close now, no more tha
n a hundred yards away, and Stephen could hear the voices of the men who accompanied them, when he came so abruptly upon a large stream that he fell off the bank and plunged full length into the water. He momentarily lost the cloak and the spear, but, fumbling, found them again in the waist-deep water which was so chill he could hardly breathe.

  He waded across to the far bank, pushed through a screen of over hanging branches, and climbed out just as the dogs reached the other side. The hounds milled about for several moments, reluctant to cross water as broad as this, for it had to be the Clun. They knew he was there, though, their prey; so first one, then the rest leaped off the bank, landing in the water with splashes that must be audible for miles. They swam across and climbed out as Stephen prepared to face them.

  He retreated from the river into a clearing illuminated from above as if by a white lantern so that the world around him was a pattern of silvers and blacks. The hounds came into the clearing, howling that they had found him, for the baying of dogs changes in a subtle way when they have met the prey. Two of them occupied his front, snarling furiously while the other three circled around behind him. In moments they would charge to drag him down.

  Stephen turned and flung the cape over one of the dogs while he swiped at a second, which danced back with such liquid grace that he missed it. The blow swung him around, however, so that his spear caught a third making his move. The impact broke the dog’s leg. It howled in pain and limped away. Stephen kept whirling, for to stand still meant death, and struck another dog with the point, lifting it clear of the ground so that it sailed into the brush. The dog under the cloak shook itself free but was momentarily confused enough that Stephen was able to clout it on the head. It collapsed. The two remaining dogs hung back, waiting for the men.