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

by Jason Vail

  “But you can’t be sure,” Walcot said.

  “No. I’ll have to look in both places.”

  “You’re not thinking of going yourself?” Walcot asked anxiously. If the Welsh came while Pentre was gone and FitzAllan found he had deserted his post, it would be the end of him. FitzAllan had no patience for men who failed in their duty, especially for what the earl was sure to view as such a frivolous reason. A man was expected to control his wife and he looked the fool when he failed.

  “I’ll have to send someone.”

  “We can ill afford to spare a man.”

  “We can make do with four less. That’s two for Shrewsbury and two for Ludlow. I’ll send them off at first light.” He added, “To think I trusted that bitch.”

  “Rosamond?”

  “No. Marjory. She could have warned me, but she said nothing. I’ll kill her when I get my hands on her.”

  It was over a week before one of the men sent off to find Rosamond returned, and much happened in that time. The Welsh had attacked all along the March. Clun castle had been besieged and the town sacked and burned, Knighton Castle had fallen with the slaughter of every man within, Roger Mortimer and his army had escaped destruction only by a truce, and Walcot’s house and village were destroyed by a raiding party. But no enemy came to Bucknell. It was quiet and life went on as if there was no war. And it snowed. No one liked the snow and the cold, but this time everyone welcomed it, for it had driven the Welsh away.

  The archer, who returned from Ludow, told Pentre, “We found them at a little place called the Trumpet.”

  “I know that place,” Walcot said. “It’s just south of the castle by the wall.”

  “What in God’s name is she doing in Ludlow?” Pentre said to no one in particular. “What’s she up to? It doesn’t make any sense.”

  The archer had returned at midday, and Pentre wasted no time in getting on the road. A fifteen mile ride ordinarily took only a little less than three hours, but with the falling snow, which had only grown heavier as time went on, it was after sundown before Pentre and his escort of three archers reached the town. The gates were shut, but he claimed to be a messenger to the constable of the castle, and the wards at Corve Gate admitted him without requiring the toll.

  By the time Pentre turned onto High Street, the wind was driving the snow almost horizontally, where it eddied and swirled in the corners and the side streets, piling up drifts against the houses, so thick that he could not see ten yards. They groped their way along the edges of the buildings like blind men feeling their way. If they had not had the man sent ahead earlier, Pentre would have missed Dinham Lane, even though he thought he knew the town well. With the snow, nothing seemed to be where it was supposed to.

  Dinham Lane was steep in the best weather, but seemed especially steep now, so treacherous that if he lost his footing he’d tumble down to the end and smack into the town wall at the bottom.

  At last, the guide stopped at the foot of the street. Here, at the junction of the perimeter road, the town wall looming overhead, was the Trumpet. Pentre had to squint against the gale to make it out.

  Firelight glowed dimly around the closed shutters and seeped through the cracks in the door. It would be warm and dry in there. Pentre was reaching for the latch when two hooded figures materialized as if out of the ground.

  They were coming back from the Broken Shield Inn, where the food was better than the Trumpet, though more expensive, and the hall warmer and more comfortable. They had lingered far too long in that congenial atmosphere, enjoying the play of a band of minstrels stranded by the troubles and the storm, so that it was after curfew. Not that they had to worry about being caught out by the watch in this dreadful weather.

  Marjory did not think anything about the men on the Trumpet’s doorstep until the one who pushed open the door so that the firelight fell on his face barked, “You!” To her horror, she recognized Pentre, with Edgar behind him, distinguishable only because of the cleft in his chin.

  “You bitch!” Pentre cried as he grasped Marjory’s collar, and drew his dagger. “You betrayed me!”

  “You leave her alone!” Rosamond shouted. “She was just doing as she was told!” She pushed him, but Pentre released Marjory only to deliver a backhanded blow to Rosamond’s head, which sent her reeling against the Trumpet’s wall.

  Pentre turned his attention back to Marjory, regaining his grip. She saw death in his eyes, and her legs felt filled with water and she seemed almost to float above the ground. Then, as Pentre raised the dagger to kill her, Rosamond came off the wall and struck him on the hinge of the jaw with as good a punch as Marjory had ever seen. How a little gentry girl had learned to punch like that was a mystery. Caught by surprise, Pentre toppled over like a felled tree. The men with him were so startled at what had just happened that they stood there, looking at Pentre stretched out on the ground.

  Rosamond grasped Marjory’s arm. “Come on!”

  They ran, slipping and stumbling, nearly falling, recovering, flailing to keep their balance, Rosamond fairly dragging Marjory behind her.

  Rosamond turned the first corner they came to and the ground rose before them, making the going that much harder. Marjory looked back now and then, expecting to see the men right behind, their cruel hands outstretched to grab her again and bear her down beneath their crushing weight. Yet no one was there, although she could hear men’s voices calling, the sound muffled by the rushing of the wind; they were pursuing, but out of sight.

  They came to another corner, and Rosamond turned again.

  “Can we stop?” Marjory gasped. “They aren’t there.”

  “They’ll be right behind us. We can’t hide in this town. They’ll find us if we don’t keep moving.” Relentless, Rosamond tugged at Marjory’s cloak and forced her to continue.

  “What about someone’s back garden?”

  “And be found in the morning, frozen solid? No, thank you.”

  “You’ve a better plan?”

  “There’s only one place we’ll be safe. Saint Laurence Church.”

  Marjory remembered it only as a square stone tower jutting above the roofs of squatter houses around it at the east end of High Street. It was, in fact, the biggest thing in Ludlow besides the castle, but she had been so preoccupied as she hurried here and there on one chore or another that she had barely noticed it.

  “There will be a priest, and an altar, and sanctuary,” Rosamond puffed, pulling Marjory after her. “A town this size has to have a priest — several priests — not some damned deacon.”

  “I hope it’s warm,” Marjory said. “I do so hope it’s warm.”

  “Since when have you ever known a warm church? At least it has a roof,” Rosamond said. “Be glad for that. Warin won’t dare bother us there, especially if we rouse the priest.”

  They reached another corner and Rosamond turned left. The street, narrow and steep, climbed the hill toward High Street, and Marjory recognized the place: the Broken Shield had been just ahead on Bell Lane, but the fury of the snow storm had concealed it.

  They struggled up to High Street, which ran along the crest of the ridge occupied by the town. It was a broad street, wide open to the wind, which whipped through it with such force that Marjory thought she would be thrown down when they stepped into it.

  Now that she knew where she was, she felt a little better, but only just. Saint Laurence’s was not far off. She was glad of that, for she could hear men’s voices calling to each other. She thought she recognized Pentre’s voice and Edgar’s. If she could hear them through the wracking of the wind, they had to be close. They ran on.

  It could not have been more than a few hundred feet from Raven Lane to College Lane, but it seemed like a mile, taking twice as long as the usual mile. But at last, Rosamond stumbled into College Lane, and they paused to catch their breath beside the stone wall separating the church from the street. It was quiet except for the howling of the wind, and they heard no voices now. Marjory ha
ted that wind, for it cut through her clothing to the skin, but she saw there was some benefit to it: it had wiped out their footprints in the snow.

  “I think we’ve lost them,” she gasped.

  “I hope so. Come on.”

  A snow drift had risen at the gate, which someone had neglected to close, or the wind had pushed it open before the worst of the snow fell. They waded through deepening snow to the east door. It formed a sort of cavern that offered some protection, the pavement stones oddly swept clear.

  Rosamond put her hand on the door handle, but did not pull it open.

  “Is it locked?” Marjory asked anxiously. The thought that they had run all this way to the only spot that might pose as a safe hiding place, yet to be denied it, struck terror in her heart.

  “I don’t know.” Rosamond removed her hand from the handle and fumbled under her cloak. The hand emerged with the potion vial. “I can’t go in yet. It isn’t right.”

  “What are you talking about?”

  “You have to help me.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “You know what I mean. I can’t keep it down. I have to keep it down. I have to. This time.” She raised the little bottle to her lips. “You have to keep me from spitting up. Like this.” Rosamond held her own hand over her mouth.

  Marjory nodded.

  “All right, then,” Rosamond said and tossed back the entire contents of the vial.

  She grimaced at the awful taste and immediately gagged. She struggled not to spit up, motioning Marjory to clamp her lips shut. Marjory put one hand over Rosamond’s mouth and, to hold firmly, the other at the back of her head.

  Rosamond’s frail body shook with violent spasms as she struggled against the impulse to vomit, trying to swallow, yet obviously failing. It seemed as though for a time that only Marjory’s strength held her up, but even that did not last, and the two sank together to the hard stones, Rosamond’s hand over Marjory’s so she could not let go.

  In the end Marjory’s will failed her and she withdrew her hands. She could not continue to be an accomplice to such terrible suffering.

  Yet Rosamond’s struggles did not cease. She did not vomit up the potion. Something seemed to have caught in her throat. She gagged and tried to breathe, but nothing came out. Her tongue protruded grotesquely, her mouth worked like a fish’s, and her eyes bulged as she fought against whatever was blocking her breath.

  Marjory grasped her shoulders and pulled her up to pound on her back. She had seen people choking on lumps of food, and this is what folks normally did at such times, but it brought Rosamond no relief. Rosamond looked up at Marjory with terror in her eyes as Marjory looked on helplessly.

  Rosamond sank back and Marjory bent over her.

  The dandelion ring on its chain had worked itself out of its hiding place and dangled in the air between them. Rosamond clutched it; whether she knew what it was Marjory could not tell.

  Rosamond’s gasps grew shorter and shorter in duration, until they finally stopped, and she lay still, eyes half open as if gazing at a distant object. Snowflakes landed on her face and melted into tears. The hand grasping the ring hung in the air, refusing to let go, as if somehow Rosamond might pull Marjory down into the abyss. Marjory snapped the chain and the hand fell away.

  She had gone and wasn’t coming back.

  Marjory was alone.

  Chapter 30

  “I didn’t mean to kill her,” Marjory pleaded. “I really didn’t. Please believe me.”

  Stephen had heard voices steeped in grief before, mothers who had lost their children, men their wives, his own sobs as he laid Taresa on the stony ground. This was genuine.

  The wagon hit a deep rut in the road and it jolted and leaned precariously, throwing Stephen against the side while Nana held on with one hand and clutched Marjory with another. A wheel stuck momentarily in the rut. The driver cursed and applied the whip. The wagon lurched forward out of the hole. Marjory sobbed into her palms.

  “Are you done?” Nana asked. “What more do you want from her?”

  “No,” Stephen said. “I’m not done yet.”

  “You are a cruel man.”

  “Marjory,” Stephen asked, “am I to understand that you left her there where she died, on the doorstep of the church?”

  Marjory raised her head, her eyes red and cheeks wet with tears. She nodded.

  “You did not move her away, off the path?”

  “No, I just ran away.”

  “What has this to do with anything?” Nana asked sharply.

  “It is a detail not accounted for,” Stephen said. “If Marjory’s story is true, someone moved her after she died.”

  “Why would anyone do that?” Nana asked.

  “A good question.”

  “And now what?” Nana growled. “The sheriff?”

  Stephen had been thinking about this matter all along. Duty required that he report what he had learned and let justice run its terrible course. Yet would justice actually be done if he did so? What good would it do to punish this girl for what surely was an accident for which she had little responsibility, or to expose Rosamond as the sinner she was, when poor folk derived hope from her? In such a perilous world, hope was the only thing that kept people from despair. It occurred to him that perhaps there was more to the stories of the saints than put down in books and told in church, that they were more fallible men and women than the stories led you to believe, steeped in sin, their lives as filled with mistakes and misjudgments and even bad deeds as anyone else, and yet good still came from them. There were no perfect people in the world, and even many of the great hero warriors Stephen had known were men you might not admire, other than for their inspiring bravery. Who could understand why miracles flowed through some people and not others?

  “It was an accident, no more than that,” Stephen murmured. “It wasn’t your fault.” He leaned over the women’s bench and parted the curtain so he could call to the driver. “You there! Stop the wagon!”

  The driver’s head swiveled around in surprise and alarm, as he had not had any inkling there was another passenger, particularly a male one. “What? What are you doing there?”

  “Just do as he says,” Nana said. “It’s all right. He needs to get off.”

  The driver reined in the team, and the wagon shuddered to a halt.

  Stephen climbed out onto the road. “Hello, boys,” he said to the two escorts who were even more astonished and embarrassed than the driver. “Nice afternoon for a ride in the country.”

  Nana leaned over the side. “Thank you for this.”

  “Just make sure that she never speaks of it to anyone, ever. You understand the price she will have to pay.”

  Nana nodded. The curtain fell back into place. Taking his cue from that, the driver snapped his whip again and the wagon jolted forward. Stephen stepped to the side of the road as the escorts trotted by.

  Stephen gazed back toward town, where the aged wooden tower on the castle’s motte kept watch, an odd contrast with the brownstone walls about it.

  As the wagon drew away, he trudged back up the hill to the town gates.

  Chapter 31

  After supper, when they were seated around the fire with blankets on their laps for warmth, even the servants having gone so that they were alone in the cavernous space, Stephen told them what he had learned. It took a while, and when he was done, Gilbert and Margaret stared into the fire. Stephen had expected them to shower him questions and criticisms, but perhaps they were only gathering their thoughts.

  “A bad business,” Gilbert murmured at last. “A sad business. She left her on the doorstep of the church, you say?”

  “Yes,” Stephen said.

  “And you believed her?”

  “I did.”

  “There was no sign of deception?”

  “None.”

  “You’re easily fooled. Isn’t that so, my lady?”

  “What would I know about that?” Margaret asked coolly, sensing
a rebuke.

  “So, then,” Gilbert continued, insensitive to the chill, “someone dragged her thirty feet away and left her in a snow drift.”

  “So it would seem,” Stephen said.

  “Some chance person who saw an opportunity for plunder?” Gilbert pondered, tapping his lips with a finger.

  “You think so?” Stephen asked.

  “One must consider every possibility, no matter how trivial or unlikely.”

  “That seems pretty unlikely,” Margaret said, “given that you found the ring under her body, not in her hand. It was a valuable ring, wasn’t it?”

  “Gold,” Stephen said. “At least the band. Here.” He removed the ring from his belt pouch and held it out.

  Margaret bent over to view it. “A pretty thing.”

  “So whoever found Rosamond’s body removed the ring from her hand,” Stephen said. “The only likely culprit is Pentre.”

  “You mentioned that he claimed she was dead, not merely a runaway,” Gilbert said. “This would explain it.”

  “He could have worked out that the girls had fled to the church,” Stephen said. “It would have been the best, even the only, sanctuary after curfew and in such a storm. He arrived there, most likely alone, and found her.”

  “Why move the body?” Margaret asked.

  “So she wouldn’t be found immediately,” Gilbert said, following the trail that Stephen had set. “He would want to be gone before she was found. It would diminish the possibility he was a suspect. Which it did quite well.”

  “And the ring?” Margaret asked. “Why did he leave it?”

  “Because of the curse,” Stephen said. “Pentre’s men believed it was cursed. After this, perhaps he had come to believe it himself.”