by Jason Vail
Stephen motioned to the corpse. “This is Patrick Carter. You may know him. His wife found him drowned in this ditch after apparently drinking last evening at a brewhouse in Ludford. Have you made inquiry into the facts?”
“We have,” the tall red haired man, whose name was William de Brandone, said formally. Now that the ritual words invoking the coroner’s inquest had been spoken, all the men of the jury had grown subdued and respectful.
“Then tell me what you know.”
Chapter 2
Stephen spent the morning exercising his three horses and did not return to the Broken Shield until dinner was well underway. The inn’s three stories of red-painted timber and whitewashed plaster presented a cheery appearance which stood out in sharp relief from the other houses on Bell Lane. A few tradesmen and apprentices who couldn’t get seats inside stood at the counters waiting for their dinners and mugs while others squatted or sat cross-legged against the edges of the street to eat their meals, it being considered bad form to hog a spot at the window.
Gilbert’s daughter, Jennie, forced her way through the press at the door, carrying a platter which held half a loaf of bread, a slab of butter, and a steaming bowl of soup, artfully avoiding her younger brother, who slipped by on his way to the yard, only to trip on a customer’s outstretch foot and fall. Stephen caught the platter she was carrying, but missed her. She landed with a thump and a curse, followed quickly by a fearful look behind to see if her mother had heard. A pair of apprentices helped her to her feet and dusted her off, eager to have her attention, even if it was only as the result of an accident. No one would call Jennie pretty — she tended to the stout side and had a rather plain face — but she had a lively eye, a winning smile and no shortage of admirers.
“Oh, thanks, sir,” she said breathlessly, ignoring the apprentices. “Have you seen Harry?”
“Harry?” Stephen said.
“Yes, it’s his dinner you’ve saved.”
“He’s by the fence over there,” Stephen pointed to a legless man a few feet away by the gate to the inn’s yard. Harry had undone himself from his board and was sitting with his leg stumps splayed out, whittling on a small piece of wood. Already its end resembled the figure of a man tugging a noose about his neck. Harry was only a few years older than Stephen, hardly thirty, but with a ratty beard that hung down to his chest, wild hair and crazy blue eyes, he seemed far older. He had been a free farmer once, but then a cart had rolled over his legs. Gangrene had set in and a barber surgeon amputated both legs above the knee. Most men would have died, but Harry had held on. He was a beggar now.
“I’ll take that then.” Jennie held her hands out for the platter.
Stephen pulled it out of reach. The puppy-like looks on the faces of the apprentices and their obvious dismay at being ignored amused him, as well as the fact Jennie was determined to keep ignoring them. “I’ll give it to him. I can see these gentlemen want a word with you.”
“Sir!” Jennie said, startled, because it was so out of the natural order of things for a man like Stephen to serve a beggar.
“Never you mind. Carry on, gentlemen.”
The apprentices grinned. One of them took Jennie’s arm. She stared at him as if he was a fly who’d landed on her sleeve. Stephen turned toward Harry.
He knelt beside Harry and set down the platter. Harry sniffed at it in a pretty good imitation of Sir Geoff.
“Morning, Harry,” Stephen said.
“New job there, governor?” Harry said. “Heard you needed the money.”
“I like to keep busy.”
“I suppose she’ll be wanting coin for that,” Harry said.
“You know that’s the way Edith works.” Edith and Gilbert owned the Broken Shield, or rather Edith did; she had inherited it from her first husband.
“You wouldn’t mind making this a donation for me, would you now, Sir Steve? You know, owing to my condition and all.”
“I’m broke, Harry. I owe for feed and stabling for my horses, and I haven’t a penny.”
“Well, you ought to sell one of them,” Harry said. “Man like you doesn’t need more than one.” Then, muttering about the lack of charity in today’s world, Harry dug in his belt pouch and came out with a farthing, which he flipped at Stephen.
“You wouldn’t be so pinched if you keep going around assessing rocks,” Harry said, lifting the platter to his lap and drinking the soup with obvious relish. “The water in that ditch must have been worth something. Why not assess that too, eh?”
“The jury in its wisdom faulted only the rock. I have to make do with what I’m given.”
“You know you could always try this line of work.” He leaned forward and said in a mock whisper, “Pays pretty well. Just get yourself a cane, show that bad foot ‘o yours a little, ‘specially on market days when folks come in from the country who don’t know you. Like that, see?” He hitched up his stockings, which were only tubes to cover his legs, the feet portion having been cut off, to show his stumps. “People love to see that stuff. And they’ll pay for the privilege. Before you know it, you can buy yourself a house, if’n you don’t drink up all your wages like I do.”
“I think I’ll try robbery first.”
“Your sort would.”
Stephen stood up. “See you, Harry.”
“Or you could become one of the sheriff’s bailiffs!” Harry shouted at his back. “They’re good at robbery and it’s legal!”
“Watch yourself crossing the street,” Stephen yelled over his shoulder. “You’re so short now people can’t see you coming.”
“Bastard!”
“Bastard yourself,” Stephen said softly. Before he’d lost his foot, he’d hardly noticed the Harrys of the world, but now he couldn’t pass one by without thinking: that could be me. It was disturbing.
The interior of the inn was long, narrow, and low ceilinged. Stephen, who was a tall leanly muscular man, felt he had to stoop to avoid bumping his head on the cross beams that stood atop a series of supporting pillars that marched toward the great stone fireplace at the rear of the hall. To the left was the bar, a wooden barrier behind which stood kegs of ale and wine. The barrier was there to prevent the customers from serving themselves, as they were known to do in some less high toned establishments. Here the girls did the tapping and the pouring, and although that commanded an extra charge, nobody minded paying because Edith always chose fine looking girls. The presence of the girls, the fireplace, and the fact of wooden floors rather than bare dirt let you know this was a cut above the ordinary fleabag. And the food wasn’t bad either. Ahead and to the right were ranks of trestle tables, all of which Stephen saw were occupied with travelers and a few local men and women who had decided not to eat the main meal of the day at home.
He threaded his way through the tables toward the rear of the hall. He normally ate at a place by the fire, which burned constantly, winter and summer. Today, because it was warm and sunny, all the windows were open to admit the radiant golden light and fresh air.
Gilbert, at a long table between the fire and the stairway, beckoned him over. “Come on, lad,” he said as Stephen slid onto the bench beside him. “Join us. We were just talking about you.” Gilbert waved a hand to the men opposite him. One was a big handsome man with neatly trimmed brown hair and beard and dark eyes that took Stephen’s measure from across the table as if he was weighing a purchase. The man was dressed in a well tailored scarlet coat with a fox fur collar. His strong hands, which grasped a sheet of parchment, were decorated with several expensive looking gold rings. Stephen recognized him as a local merchant but didn’t know his name. The man’s companion was impressive in his own way with huge shoulders and a thick neck. Gilbert said, “This is Anselin Baynard, master draper. And his bailiff, Clement.”
“A pleasure, Master Baynard, Master Clement,” Stephen said.
“The pleasure’s mine,” Baynard said courteously in an accent that Stephen thought hailed from Anglia or Kent, perhaps even Lon
don. People had a decidedly odd way of talking in the east. Baynard put down the parchment. Stephen saw it was Gilbert’s draft of the report on Patrick the carter’s death. Baynard added, “Gilbert was just telling us about your case of yesterday. Sad.” He didn’t sound sad, though. He sounded as though he was just making polite conversation. “He said you were quite thorough in your inquiries.”
“I’m new to the business,” Stephen said, “but under Gilbert’s guidance I think I’ll catch on.”
“We hope so,” Baynard said. There was a pause and he said, “You were a soldier?”
“I was.”
“In France?”
It was an obvious place to go soldiering for an Englishman, because the king fought his wars in France, although there had been problems lately with the Welsh and a simmering dispute between a party of barons and the king that had both sides surreptitiously gathering men. But Stephen said, “No, Spain.”
Baynard’s eyebrows rose ever so slightly. “So you must have some acquaintance with the Mohammadeans. I would like to hear about them sometime. Master Gilbert tells me you come from a local family . . .”
“My brother holds Hafton manor, which is a day’s walk from here, and my cousin is the earl of Shelburgh.”
“Ah, one of those Attebrooks. And a younger son, too. A pity to be thrust into the world to make your way without any support.” This last was said with some emotion, as if Baynard understood the cold, bitter feeling of being thrown into the world to sink or swim.
Baynard’s measuring gaze wandered over Stephen, who grew conscious of the rather threadbare state of his coat and the frayed cuffs and collar of his linen shirt. A casual observer might have taken Baynard for the gentryman and Stephen for the tradesman, instead of the other way around.
Fortunately, Jennie and Paula, another of the serving girls, came over with a tray of sliced mutton covered with rosemary, bread, steamed carrots, and spinach mixed with vinegar, and ale. They put the tray down at the end of the table and lay trenchers and food before the four men. Jennie kissed Gilbert on the top of his bald head. “Don’t eat too fast or too much, dad,” she said. “You’ll get heartburn again.”
“Daughters,” Gilbert said with fond amusement after she had retreated through the corridor around the end of the fireplace. “They’re as bad as wives sometimes. Think they can tell you how to run your life.”
Baynard smiled thinly. He began applying butter to his bread, attacking it with such vigor that, while wielding the knife, his left elbow jabbed Clement in the side. “Give me space, man,” Baynard snapped and Clement, who did not seem suited for meekness, meekly slid over a half a foot on the bench.
Baynard said to Stephen, “Master Gilbert says you have reservations about the conclusion in this Patrick’s death, Master Stephen.”
Stephen got his spoon and knife out of his pouch and wiped them off on his stockings before he cut into his mutton, which was so soft it broke apart at a touch. “It seems an accident. But he didn’t stay long enough at the brewhouse to get so drunk that he’d lose his way in the dark like that. That’s all.”
“But the jury agreed it was an accident.”
“They did.”
“And you ratified their conclusion.”
“Yes.”
“The matter should be closed then.”
“I suppose it is.”
“Ah,” Baynard murmured. He tried the mutton. “Excellent, Master Gilbert. So tender, and the spices.”
“It’s the mint, rosemary and pepper,” Gilbert said, his mouth full of mutton as well. “Would you like the salt?” He offered Baynard the salt bowl. Baynard declined but Clement took it and sprinkled some on his butter.
Baynard said, “Sir Stephen, I have a difficulty for which I wondered if I might have your assistance.”
“Oh?” Stephen said cautiously.
“I have an apprentice who has run away.”
“Peter Bromptone,” Clement cut in.
“Yes,” Baynard said. “Bromptone. He has three years left on his contract, and I want him back to finish it. Can’t tolerate apprentices breaking contracts and running away. It’s no way to do business and sets a bad example for the boys who remain if you allow them to pick up and leave whenever they feel like it.”
“What’s that got to do with me?” Stephen asked.
“I need someone to find him.”
“What’s wrong with Master Clement here?”
“Oh, I can’t spare Clement. Who would manage my affairs? They are quite complicated. No, I thought to hire someone, but there is the problem of trust. You can pay a man to work out of your sight, but you can never be sure he is diligent.” Baynard leaned forward and smiled. Despite Baynard’s coolness earlier, he now seemed genuinely friendly.
Stephen had a hard time disagreeing with Baynard. He’d had enough experience with men falling asleep when they should have been on guard duty or scouts just riding over a hill and taking a nap instead of trying to find the enemy. He said, “I see. Why not hire one of the sheriff’s bailiffs? The Bromptones are a local family. They’ll tell the bailiff where he’s got to.”
“We’ve a new sheriff now that the king’s returned to power, as you know being a king’s man yourself, and he’s a Bromptone cousin. I can’t very well hire one of his bailiffs and expect him to put his best efforts into the search.”
Stephen wasn’t so sure as Baynard that he was a king’s man. He was just trying to do a job. He’d been out of the country when the trouble between King Henry and Simon de Montfort and the barons had blown up. He hadn’t been back more than six weeks, and he had yet to take sides in the dispute, although the lines were pretty clearly drawn in this town and countryside. He said cautiously, “And you think I would find him?”
“You come highly recommended.”
“How much?” Stephen asked and took another bite of the mutton. It really was delicious.
“I’ll pay twelve shillings and expenses.”
Stephen nearly spat out his mouth full of mutton. It was a large sum and would tide him over until he got paid proper. Plus expenses, too! He wouldn’t have to sell one of his horses. He had three, a Spanish stallion and two mares. They were the only things of value aside from his armor and weapons that he still possessed, and he could not bear the thought of having to sell any of it. People who got that desperate were on the road to beggary, and there was no escape from that. He stirred the sauce on his trencher and tried to appear unconcerned.
“Why are you offering so much?” Stephen asked.
“He owes me money. Three times in debt what I offer you.”
“What if I don’t find him?” Stephen asked.
Baynard smiled. Stephen had always heard that merchants enjoyed haggling over prices, but Baynard sounded as though making an offer entailed cutting off a finger. “Six shillings if you don’t. Six more when I have Bromptone in hand.”
“In advance.”
Baynard hesitated, then nodded. “Agreed.”
“Plus expenses either way.”
“Plus expenses either way,” Baynard grudged.
“All right, Master Baynard. I’ll have to get Sir Geoff’s permission to be away. On that condition, I’ll undertake your commission.” He had almost said, I’m your man, but that would have implied that Baynard was in a superior social position.
“Excellent, Sir Stephen. Excellent.” Baynard stood up. Somehow during all the talk, he had cleaned his trencher. “Thanks so much for dinner, Master Gilbert. Your cook is a true artist. Come, Clement, the day is wasting and we have much business.”
Clement looked put out, because he still had food on his trencher, but he couldn’t very well disobey. He swiped the butt of his bread in the mutton sauce and hurried after Baynard, who was already striding energetically toward the door, calling a greeting here and there to people who knew him.
Gilbert watched both men disappear into the street. He turned back to his trencher and poked the remains of his mutton. “I’ll be
damned,” he said in amazement.
Chapter 3
In that twilight of the mind between sleep and wakefulness, Stephen thought she was there: her scent, like the aroma of a votive candle, filled the air, that combination of lilac and musk which permeated her hair, the signature of her being. The sense of it was so sharp that he came immediately awake, gasping as much with primal desire as grief as piercing as a spear point. His wife, Taresa, wasn’t there of course. She had been dead almost six months now, although it seemed like yesterday that he had wrapped her porcelain face in an old linen bed sheet and put her in the hard ground outside Cordoba. Soldiers — indeed most men — had women like they had goblets of wine, and moved on to the next without a second thought or a regret when the first was lost. But Stephen had still not been able to forget her. It made him feel weak and foolish.
He sat up in bed, heart pounding. Naked, he rose from the bed and padded to the table by the window, mindful not to bump his bed against the rafters. The room was on the top floor at the back of the inn, one of the least desirable chambers, and the ceiling slanted so that in parts of it he had to crouch. He couldn’t complain, though. In payment of some debt to his cousin, Gilbert and Edith let him have it for nothing.
Dipping his washrag in the bowl on the table, he sponged himself off, head to toe, then washed his hair. He looked forward to the day when he could afford a couple of hours at the bathhouse. Ah, to sit and soak in a hot tub of water, with a cup of wine on the sideboard. The thought made him smile.
When he finished his bath, he eased open the shutters and poured the bath water out the window. It was light enough to see now, and to the right, the stable doors cracked open and Harry emerged, tied to his board. The board was a strange thing. It had little rockers on it rather like those on a rocking chair that allowed him to bend forward so he could more easily reach the ground with his hands. He propelled himself with his fists, which were encased in leather gloves with padding on the knuckles. Harry saw Stephen and waved. “Morning, your honor!” he shouted, not caring if he woke any of the guests, who had not yet begun to show themselves.