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

by Jason Vail

  “It is a pity you will never know for certain,” Margaret said.

  “What do you mean?” Stephen asked.

  “I have some news of my own. This afternoon I received word from Arnold Bromptone,” she said. “He failed to intercept Pentre on his return from the last raid — they sacked and burned a manor at Upper Hayton five days ago. However, he followed the trail back to Bucknell, and took the castle by surprise escalade during the night, with no small help from your description. Pentre, Walcot, and a few others sought refuge in the tower, but Bromptone managed to set it afire. The wood was old and dry, apparently. A little barrel of pitch was enough. It made a torch visible for miles, he wrote.”

  “All were killed?” Stephen asked.

  “Some escaped, but not many.”

  “I hope Bromptone is happy with his revenge.”

  “I suspect he is for now, and happy that he has recovered some of what was lost.”

  “I hate not knowing,” Stephen said.

  “Suppositions are thin consolation for all our hard work,” Gilbert agreed.

  “Our work?” Stephen asked.

  “I did find the maid, after all. That was hard work. I had to scour the entire town before I tracked her to her hiding place. What would you have done without that?”

  “All you got out of that was sore feet.”

  “And I should be compensated for them, though there seems to be no possibility of that. Not even a ‘Well done, Gilbert. You’ve found the key.’”

  “Well,” Margaret said, rising from her chair and taking the pitcher of Gascon wine that had rested on the ground beside it, “have some more wine.”

  Gilbert extended his cup. “Thank you, my lady. That is an excellent wine.”

  After she had filled his cup and set down the pitcher, she held out her hand to Stephen, who hesitated in doubt and uncertainty about what this meant before he took it.

  As she drew Stephen to his feet, Margaret said, “Master Wistwode, I leave the pitcher to you. May it ease your suffering feet. Meanwhile, I hope you will excuse us. Stephen and I have some unfinished business that we must conduct before he falls asleep.”

  Gilbert managed not to gape in surprise or ask what business that was.

  He reached for the pitcher as Margaret led Stephen across the hall to the stairway to her chambers.

  Epilog

  Although rumors circulated about the March for some time, consensus settled around the notion that Bucknell had suffered a winter raid by the Welsh. Such raids were unusual, but the border had been dreadfully unsettled of late, with raiding parties penetrating twenty or even thirty miles into England. Only a few suspected the truth, and they kept their suspicions close, plotting their revenge.

  In mid-February, the weather warmed almost to the point that the air was spring-like. People welcomed this turn, for it meant less discomfort, especially at night when they usually crouched around the fire for relief from chills and drafts before scampering off to bed, but those who had to take to the roads cursed it, for the wet turned the roads to ribbons of mud, halting virtually all traffic that rode on wheels. A single horse, however, could make good time on the verges, which were not as churned up, so Stephen took the opportunity to ride down to the Saltehus’ home at Worlebury. It was farther south than he had expected — beyond Bristol on the shore by the bay of the Severn. There he returned the ring and informed them of how their family had died and who was responsible, and the fate that befell them.

  On the way back, Stephen stopped at Gloucester, where he called on a certain draper named Peter Bromptone, a younger son of Arnold Bromptone with whom he had a short acquaintance, and his wife Alicia, who was noticeably with child. They were grateful at the news Stephen brought of Bromptone’s home and father, and invited him to stay the night, the hard feelings that had arisen from their last encounter having dissipated to the point that they shared an odd affection born of shared hardship and nostalgia, but he declined. Peter did help by recommending a cutler across from Saint Mary’s Church on Graselone Lane by the north gate to buy one of the swords Stephen had taken during his escape from Warin Pentre. He had neglected to sell it in Shrewsbury, a decision he regretted, as he had much debt and the amount offered for it in Ludlow was not enough to cover what he owed. He thought he might get a better price for it in Gloucester, and he was right.

  Stephen returned to Ludlow by a circuitous route that brought him to the Galdeford Gate on the east rather than Broad Gate to the south where the bridge on the Hereford Road crossed the Teme. He did not wish to confront Harry for he had not yet repaid him. Harry had said nothing, since no one was supposed to know that he had any possessions whatsoever, let alone four shillings in hard money that he had let out to loan. But Stephen wanted to avoid further accusatory looks and comments about his own pauper status.

  As he was putting the mare up, Gilbert entered the stable, having been alerted by one of the boys to Stephen’s arrival. “Have you got it?” he asked anxiously.

  “Yes,” Stephen said. “More than enough to shut his mouth.”

  “Thank goodness! He’s been pestering me about it since you went away — as if I have some responsibility for it.” Gilbert sighed, “You’d think that picture should have kept him satisfied, but he gave it back.”

  “Why?”

  “He was afraid Jennifer would see it and think ill of him.”

  Stephen smiled. “Poor Harry.”

  They went out to the yard where Gilbert called to one of the house boys to take Stephen’s belongings to his room. Stephen would have followed, but the sight of the little cart caught his eye, and he had an inspiration. “Fetch Mark!” he called to the house boy as he entered. “I’ve a chore for him!”

  “Right away, sir!” the boy called back.

  “What are you up to?” Gilbert asked, sensing something afoot in such uncustomary behavior. After a long journey, most people wanted to settle by the fire and relax.

  “You’ll see,” Stephen said.

  When Mark came out to the yard, Stephen tossed a farthing at him and told him to bring the cart.

  He and Gilbert, followed unenthusiastically by Mark and the cart, went out to Bell Lane and down Broad Street to the gate.

  Harry saw them coming from a long way off, nodding as they drew close. “Look who snuck into town,” he said. “How long have you been back?”

  “Long enough to put up my horse,” Stephen said, stopping before Harry.

  Harry eyed the saddlebag on Stephen’s shoulder and threw a look at the nook where the gate ward took shelter. “Have you got it?”

  “Got what?”

  “You know what I mean.”

  “Ah, that. I have, and I think we should celebrate your good fortune.”

  “My good fortune. What the devil are you talking about?”

  Stephen did not answer that. Instead, he said to Mark and Gilbert, “Gentlemen, if you would be so kind as to load this fellow on our cart.”

  Neither Mark nor Gilbert seemed happy at this request, but Gilbert grasped Harry under the arms, and Mark took what remained of his legs, and they lifted him to the bed of the cart. Gilbert grimaced from the exertion, as Harry was quite heavy even though there wasn’t an ounce of fat on him.

  “I think I’ve pulled out my back,” Gilbert said as he staggered away from the cart.

  “Serves you right,” Harry said, “assaulting a man like this. What’s going on?”

  “We are taking a short journey,” Stephen said.

  Harry leaned over and hissed in a voice he hoped to would not carry far. “I want my money. I don’t want any journey.”

  “Nevertheless, you’re getting both. One before the other.”

  “This is an outrage,” Harry said.

  “We haven’t even got to the best part yet,” Stephen said.

  He turned about and headed through the gate.

  The mire was such on the street between the gate and the bridge, that it took the three of them to pull the cart
through the mess. But finally, they reached the Wobley Kettle, a bathhouse that stood across the street from Saint John’s Hospital.

  “What are we doing at this den of vice?” Harry demanded.

  “I said it was to celebrate,” Stephen said. “Can you think of a better place?”

  “My stall,” Harry said. “I like my stall.”

  “You shall have your stall in good time.” Stephen then called through the door for servants of the bathhouse to take Harry inside, as he could not mount the step himself, and Gilbert was not up to the effort. Carriage was not free of course, but he felt as though he was rolling in money from all he had got for the sword and the other half of the Saltehus’ commission. Once Bromptone finally paid up, he’d be a rich man.

  Several whores were waiting for customers in the hall when they entered, and they blew kisses at the sight of the new arrivals, anticipating their custom, although they looked at Harry as if someone had introduced a rat among them.

  “Take him to the back,” Stephen said, indicating the doorway that led to the tubs where people took their baths. “He’ll need a smaller tub than most people, the one you use for children. He’ll drown otherwise.”

  “Stop this,” Harry said, as he began to thrash in protest so that the porters nearly dropped him. But they held on firmly, which wasn’t easy, anticipating more money from Stephen for their efforts.

  “You need a bath, Harry,” Stephen said. “Be still.”

  “It’s winter. I don’t take my bath until July.”

  “Nonetheless, you’re going to have one. You stink bad enough to kill a mule.”

  Despite his protests, Harry ceased thrashing, and allowed himself to be carried to the rear of the house, where the porters put him on a bench in the stall containing the small tub used for children.

  Harry contemplated the bath, which other servants were filling with pails of hot water, with something approaching dread.

  “Clothes off, Harry,” Stephen said. “Or I cut them off.”

  “You are an evil man,” Harry said.

  Stephen sent Mark out and drew the curtain. He sat beside Harry and began counting out pennies from his saddlebag. It took a long time to count out eight shillings, but when he was done, there was quite a substantial stack of pennies between them.

  “That’s more than I gave you,” Harry said.

  “Yes, and you can have it all if you get in the bath.”

  Torn between his natural greed and his aversion to baths, Harry regarded the pennies. At last he said, “I can’t climb in that thing by myself.”

  “Gilbert,” Stephen said, rising, “give me a hand.”

  “I am injured!” Gilbert protested. But since it was only a short trip from the bench to the tub and did not require a great change in altitude, he suffered to lend a hand, and between the two of them, they managed to deposit Harry into the tub without spilling the contents.

  “Oh, God,” Harry muttered.

  “Terrible, isn’t it?” Stephen handed Harry a cake of soap.

  “What’s this?” Harry pretended ignorance.

  “You know what it is. Get the worst off.”

  When Harry took the soap, Stephen pushed his head under water.

  Harry came up spitting and cursing. “I’ll never forgive you for this!”

  “Oh, I think you will,” Stephen said, scooping the pennies into the bag.

  A couple of the house girls entered the stall, and Stephen and Gilbert withdrew so they could work their magic without the distraction of spectators.

  They heard Harry say, “What the hell?” and “Oh!” before they reached the doorway to the hall.

  “I wouldn’t mind some of that,” Gilbert said a bit wistfully.

  “You’re a married man!”

  “Well, yes, but I’m allowed to dream. Just don’t tell Edith.”

  The two girls came out and said they were done. Stephen and Gilbert returned to the stall with the barber who had a shop next to the Wobley Kettle so as to provide his services to its customers whom baths had softened up so they were less inclined to object to his prices.

  “No! Not that!” Harry cried, recognizing the barber.

  “Yes, that,” Stephen said. “It’s time to see what you’ve got hidden under there.”

  “I like my beard. It helps me keep warm.”

  “Have at him,” Stephen said to the barber, who was regarding the wild mat of hair and beard as a professional challenge which he might not be able to handle.

  “It’s worse than I thought,” the barber said, who knew Harry of course but had never pondered the problem of his beard up close. “It’s going to cost you extra.”

  “Just try not to cut his throat,” Stephen said.

  “Can I at least cut out his tongue?”

  “No, that’s the best part of him.”

  “I don’t think many people would agree with that,” Gilbert murmured.

  Harry looked set to resist further, but the warm water and the ministrations of the ladies had weakened him, and the barber set to work after Harry had been toweled off and dressed in fresh rags.

  It took a full hour before Harry’s hair had been shortened to civilized length and combed, and his beard shaved.

  “Well, well,” the barber said when he stood back to admire his masterpiece.

  “I cannot believe this is the same person,” Gilbert said in astonishment and awe. “No one will recognize this as Harry.”

  “What? What?” Harry said.

  “Our work here is finished,” Stephen said. “Let us get him back.”

  The return to the Broken Shield was a quiet business, marked only by the fact that the boy Mark had managed to get drunk during Harry’s bath, and kept slipping in the muck and occasionally falling down. But with the three of them pulling the cart, they got it up the hill as far as Bell Lane without spilling their cargo and ruining the good work that had already been done.

  Jennie Wistwode was stirring laundry in a tub over a fire in the yard when they entered. She gaped at the spectacle, and asked as they passed, “Who is that?”

  “It’s Harry,” Stephen said. “He’s had his bath. Could you bring him out some supper after we get him settled?”

  “That can’t be Harry,” Jennie said. “He’s . . . he’s . . . handsome!” Normally, Jennie had to be badgered to fetch things for Harry, but now she rushed into the inn without further prompting.

  “Did you hear what she said?” Harry asked, as Stephen and Gilbert set Harry on his board, since Mark was still having trouble holding himself up let alone anyone else.

  “I heard,” Gilbert said, not altogether happy about what was happening. “Don’t let it go to your head. What you have of one, anyway.”

  “My head is worth two of yours,” Harry said sharply.

  “That’s the old Harry,” Stephen said.

  Harry disappeared into the stable, and Gilbert and Stephen lingered in the yard, enjoying the last light of the day.

  Jennie brushed by them carrying a tray and went into the stable.

  “Harry?” they heard Jennie ask.

  “Yes,” Harry said. “Would you like to come in?”

  “You really are Harry. It’s so hard to believe.”

  “Do you like me better this way?”

  “I do.”

  At that, Stephen took Gilbert by the elbow and turned toward the inn, where Edith was leaning out a window to call them to supper.

  There are times when the world seems knocked out of kilter, where nothing goes right and all the best intentions end in disaster. But at this one moment, things felt good.

  “I shall not get used to that,” Gilbert said.

  “It may not be so bad after all,” Stephen said as they crossed the doorstep into the warmth and comfort of home.

 

 

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