The Wayward Apprentice

by Jason Vail

“Who was she?”

  Clement shrugged. “Some girl from Gloucester.”

  “How is it he was able to marry a girl from Gloucester? Did he often get down there?”

  “No, of course not,” Clement said. “They met here and there, bundling in alleys and orchards, that sort of thing.” At Stephen’s puzzled look, Clement added, “She was a maid to Lucy Wattepas.”

  “I’m sorry. I’m new here. I’ve heard the name, but its significance escapes me.”

  “Wattepas — Leofwine Wattepas, alderman of the Palmer’s Guild,” Clement said impatiently. “She’s his wife.”

  Stephen was familiar enough with the institutions of the town to understand the significance of that. The Palmer’s Guild was an association of wealthy merchants whose purpose was to fund the salaries of chaplains at various charities and to provide for a program of insurance for its members. It was almost as important and powerful as the council of twelve, which actually ran the town. “And she ran off, too. How embarrassing that must be for Master Baynard, to lose an apprentice and to cause such an important family to lose a maid.”

  “Oh, it caused quite a falling out. It’s got so neither of the masters will speak to the other, each blaming the other. It won’t last, though. They bowl on the same team.” He laughed and said, “You should see them at bowls, huffing around and pretending the other isn’t there.” More soberly he went on, “It’s only on account of Mistress Wattepas that there’s bad feeling. She’d be affronted if there wasn’t, and you don’t want to affront Mistress Wattepas.”

  “A formidable lady.”

  “You take that right.”

  “A little more wine, Master Clement?” Stephen asked. He offered the pitcher. Drinking with servants was not something he had been brought up to encourage, but he had long ago got used to drinking with soldiers and, now that it had occurred to Stephen that Clement could be helpful, the courtesy might loosen his tongue.

  “Why, thank you.” Clement poured, took a hearty swig and smacked his lips. “They’ve such good wine here.”

  “This Peter, you haven’t told me what did he looks like.”

  “Oh, a handsome lad, at least that’s what everyone said.”

  “You didn’t think so.”

  Clement shrugged. “He was well enough set up — dark brown hair the color of good dirt, eyes the same. A fair complexion, but marred by freckles across his nose. A little taller than me, but slightly built and not much for fighting. He should be though, the way he talks. Sassed me when he first came, and I had to teach him his place.” Clement clenched his fist at the memory. “He has trouble learning his lessons. He’d talk back to the king. Never shy about speaking his mind, that one.”

  “I would guess then that Peter and Master Baynard didn’t get along.”

  Clement’s eyes narrowed as if he was debating whether to answer. “Not well at all. They argued a lot.”

  “What about?”

  “About anything that came into Peter’s head. But often it was politics, although what Peter’s business is with the running of the country, I don’t know.”

  “Peter was for Montfort.”

  “Yes,” Clement said. “When his family went over to the barons, Peter went with them, and wasn’t silent about it. When the king came back to power, Peter still couldn’t keep silent about it. It drove the master mad. He made Peter sleep in the barn and do chores. Pete took that hard. ‘Prentices aren’t supposed to do chores, you know.”

  “Yes, I was an apprentice once.”

  “You were? At what?”

  Stephen ignored the question. He didn’t want to talk about that unfortunate time of his life, especially with someone like Clement. “What about this debt?”

  “What debt?”

  “The one that Peter owes.”

  “Ah, the fool boy left a half wagon load of cloth out in the rain when he ran. It mildewed. He owes for the damage.”

  “How clumsy. More wine?”

  “Don’t mind if I do.”

  “Your visitor, my lady, the deputy coroner,” the servant said. He drew back a few steps and turned about with precision more often seen in the court of an earl than the hall of a merchant, and marched away.

  Mistress Lucy Wattepas put down her stylus and regarded Stephen. Her expression attempted to be noncommittal, but Stephen saw the calculation behind her chilly eyes, which traveled from his battered boots to his face. And he could guess what lay behind that measuring gaze. She wasn’t sure how to treat him. There were many rungs on the social ladder, and the players’ standing on those rungs in relation to another dictated how they played the game of society.

  Her indecision arose from the fact that she wasn’t, by rights, a lady. That title belonged to a woman of the gentry, not a merchant’s wife. Yet she had pretensions, which were evident not only in the servant’s manner of address and his behavior, but in her appearance and bearing. She wore a heavy chain of twisted gold. Her gown was an embroidered maroon, the sort of thing you’d expect to see on a gentry woman rather than a merchant’s wife. Stephen guessed she was a gentry woman who had married down, which was not unusual in families having a surplus of daughters, and she had aspirations to reclaim her former place in society. Many merchants grew rich enough to buy themselves a manor and rise socially. Clearly, that had not happened yet for Mistress Wattepas. Stephen expected this was a source of discontent.

  She, on the other hand, was having difficulty placing him. She knew that he was gentry, but poor. Poverty did not immediately eject one from the gentry but it could diminish one’s standing. How much depended on connections. So there was Stephen’s family to consider and whom he might know.

  “A pleasure, sir,” she said, making a claim to high standing by speaking in French, a language that many gentry far from London did not speak well. As the language of court, they were expected to know it unless they stood so far down the ladder that they were little better than yeomen. “May I offer you some refreshment?”

  “No, thank you, my lady,” Stephen said in court French, his pronunciation more correct than hers, and making the point that he accepted her gentry status but that he stood higher than she did.

  Her mouth twisted, perhaps in a smile, at the message. She said, “How may I help you, sir?”

  “My apologies, for the interruption,” Stephen said. “I know you are busy. I do not require but a few moments of your valuable time. I ask only a favor.”

  “I am happy to do whatever is within my power,” she said. Her lips pursed as if she was weighing how much any favor would put him in her debt.

  “I am trying to locate someone,” Stephen said.

  Mistress Wattepas steepled her fingers. “This is not an official inquiry?”

  “No. It is private business.”

  “Of yours?”

  “Of a friend.”

  “What friend, if you don’t mind my asking?”

  Stephen hesitated. If she disliked Baynard it was not politic to mention him. So Stephen uttered the first name that popped into his head: “Gilbert Wistwode.” He was immediately sorry. It made the task seem unimportant from Mistress Wattepas’ perspective and rendered her less likely to be helpful.

  “Poor Master Wistwode,” she said in a way intended to be sympathetic but which could not help being disdainful. “Has he lost a servant girl?”

  “He is owed a debt,” Stephen said, regretting his mistake. He attempted to improvise by making the problem seem his. “I have taken it upon myself as his friend to speak to the debtor in hopes he will pay it.”

  “Ah,” Mistress Wattepas said. Her fingers tapped the parchments before her.

  “I don’t know how I can possibly help you,” she said. As she settled back in her chair, her elbow brushed a cylinder of copper, which clattered to the floor.

  Stephen retrieved the cylinder. As he returned it to the table, he noticed that it was a seal in the form of a scales with a sword as the central balance — an odd seal for a merchant. He put the
seal on the documents. Although they were upside down, they were written in so neat a hand that Stephen could see they consisted of ledgers of account and a few business letters.

  He said, “Well, the young fellow seems to have disappeared.”

  “Young fellow?”

  “Yes, an apprentice named Peter Bromptone.”

  “What could Master Wistwode possibly want with that silly boy.”

  “He ran up a bill and then disappeared.”

  “Have you inquired of his family?”

  “They were not helpful.”

  Mistress Wattepas’ mouth turned down in disapproval. “Of course. They are for Montford, that despicable man. They have no honor.”

  “I understand that you may have a grievance against him yourself involving a maid.”

  “I have forgiven it.”

  Stephen was certain she had not. But he said, “That is generous of you.”

  “She is silly girl of no consequence. There is no point in becoming agitated over her.”

  “What is her name . . . Amicia . . . something.”

  “Canterbrigge. Amicia Canterbrigge,” Mistress Wattepas said with difficulty as if the name itself hurt her tongue.

  “And she came recommended to you?”

  Mistress Wattepas waved a hand. “What does this have to do with that unpardonable little man?”

  “She wed young Bromptone.”

  “Did she.” Her tone suggested that this was news, but not unexpected. “Where did you learn that?”

  “From a good source.”

  “His family?”

  “Yes,” Stephen lied.

  “They would know.”

  “Without his father’s permission.”

  She chuckled as she savored that revelation, for coming from the gentry she could appreciate its implications. “That boy should be whipped. What cheek.”

  “She came from a good family, then?”

  “Who?”

  “The girl, Amicia. I cannot imagine that a lady such as yourself would take into your household anyone but from a good family.”

  “They are,” Mistress Wattepas grated. “Or were, until this. She has brought them down. The boy will never amount to anything. And she is an only daughter. Their spawn will inhabit the gutter,” she said as if she relished the thought.

  “And the girl left no word with anyone where she could be reached?”

  “Of course not. The idea is preposterous. She’s as much a runaway as he is.”

  “Ah. Certainly. And you said her father’s name was . . . what?”

  “I don’t believe I spoke of her father.”

  “Perhaps you didn’t. I thought you had. Who was he?”

  “Just a draper.”

  “You dislike drapers?”

  “Some drapers. Are you quite through? This is distracting.”

  “I do not mean to distress you.”

  “These matters are irksome.”

  “I beg your pardon, madame. In any case, you’ve been most helpful.”

  She was still shaking her head in bewilderment about how she could have been of assistance as he left the hall.

  Chapter 7

  Harry was at the Lower Broad Street gate when Stephen rode out of town Monday morning. The passage was blocked by a woman, a boy, and a flock of geese they were driving into town. Stephen couldn’t get through immediately because the warden on duty was having trouble counting the flock in order to assess the toll. The geese kept milling around so that the warden, never good with figures in the first place, kept losing count and had to start over.

  Harry eyed the geese with hungry eyes. “Here, here,” he coaxed, holding out a scrap of bread. “I’ve got something for you.”

  “Keep those hands where they can be seen, Harry,” Stephen said.

  “Bugger off, your honor. Who says I can’t give some poor starving geese a little charity?”

  “I don’t think it’s charity you have in mind. Besides, their owner has her eyes on you.”

  “People always suspect the worst, grumpy bastards.” He popped the crust in his mouth, however, and raised his begging bowl. “Care to make a donation, governor?”

  Stephen dismounted and dropped to one knee beside Harry. “Do you have it?”

  “What do you take me for? I’m an honest man. I told you I would be no party to fraud or forgery.”

  The warden threw them a look, and Stephen said, “Keep your voice down.”

  He had thought they’d made a deal and he was surprised with Harry’s sudden attack of scruples. He started to straighten up, but Harry caught his wrist. Stephen had never felt the man’s strength before and it was like being clasped in irons.

  Harry said, “Aren’t you going to leave me nothing? Rich fellow like you?”

  He rattled the bowl and, when Stephen looked down, he saw a stick as wide around as the Wattepas’ seal had somehow appeared there among the few coins Harry had collected that morning.

  Stephen dropped a penny in the bowl and palmed the stick. A glance at the end showed an excellent replica of the drawing of the seal he had left with Harry yesterday.

  “That good enough for you?” Harry asked.

  “With skills like that, Harry, you could be a rich man yourself.”

  “They hang forgers you know.”

  “I’ll be your partner. No one but me has to know you’re the source.”

  “You’d break under torture.”

  The warden had started his count over again, so Stephen said to Harry to make conversation, “It’s awfully smoky today.”

  “There was a fire last night in Ludford. One of the mills burned down. You didn’t hear the commotion?”

  “No.”

  “And you call yourself a soldier. Bet the Moors could’ve ridden right through your camp while you slept. Yeah, it was a big fire. Lit up the sky like a bonfire. And all the shouting! You could hear it from the Shield.”

  “Sorry I missed it.”

  “Wish I could go see. You wouldn’t consider giving me a ride over, would you?”

  “Sorry, Harry. I’m headed to Gloucester today and it’s a long ride.”

  “Gloucester, is it? Never been there. Always wanted to go. Doesn’t look like I’ll get there now. They say it’s a fair town.”

  “It’s all right. A lot like Ludlow, only bigger. You’re not missing anything.”

  The warden finally had finished his count. The woman paid up, and the boy snapped his switch to drive the flock up the street. Stephen flicked a farthing at Harry. “For the news,” he said.

  “You’re too kind, governor.”

  “Just remember to come in out of the rain, Harry.”

  Stephen mounted the mare and rode through the gate.

  Across the Teme, the road forked. The main road continued up the slope to the village proper; another road turned left and ran along the riverbank, while yet a third wended westward. Stephen went left. A fulling mill lay in that direction only a short distance away, its water wheel creaking under the current of the mill race. There was another mill beyond it which Stephen could not see. This must be the one that burned, for a pall of thin smoke was rising from that direction. One of the mills belonged to Ancelin Baynard. Stephen shivered with a premonition. He turned left.

  A short way down the road, a pair of huge oaks stood athwart the river road, their branches arching overhead and entwining, creating the impression of an enormous gate. Stephen passed through and saw the ruined mill. Only a pile of smoldering timbers remained. A crowd of young boys lined the fence, while within the enclosure a dozen workers, who had nothing to do, sat under beeches whose remaining leaves were singed by the fire.

  Anselin Baynard stood before the pile. The stench from the fire and the still rising smoke made the air practically unbreathable. Having had his view, Stephen thought about riding on, but Baynard turned and spotted him.

  Baynard looked as though he wanted to avoid conversation as much as Stephen did, but since they had seen eac
h other, it would have been too uncivil to pretend they hadn’t.

  They came together at the fence. “Your mill?” Stephen said.

  “I dare say,” Baynard spat.

  “A great loss. I’m sorry.”

  “Thank you,” Baynard said without sincerity. “Good day to you.” He was turning away when a sight checked him. He pointed a finger beyond Stephen and shouted, “You!”

  Stephen swung his head about. To his astonishment, Arnold Bromptone and Nigel FitzSimmons were approaching on foot down the slope from Ludford, followed by three armed men — the same men he’d seen at Bromptone’s house.

  “Don’t you come any closer!” thundered Baynard.

  “I’ll go where I like,” Bromptone said, drawing up. “And where I like is here, at the moment.” He looked up at Stephen and said perfunctorily, “Attebrook. Good to see you well.”

  “I’m sure it is,” Stephen said coolly. “And you, Sir Nigel.”

  FitzSimmons inclined his head all that politeness required.

  “You’re short a few men,” Stephen said. “The one with that bad scar on his face — where is he?”

  “He’s been detained,” FitzSimmons said through clenched teeth.

  “A pity,” Stephen said evenly.

  “What do you want, Bromptone?” Baynard said.

  “We heard about your misfortune,” Bromptone said lightly. “Came to pay our condolences.”

  “Your condolences be damned.”

  “Well, you have them anyway, for what they’re worth to you.” Bromptone surveyed the ruins. “Quite a loss.”

  “I shall rebuild,” Baynard grated.

  “Commendable. It amazes me how merchants stand up to adversity.”

  “Life is risk.”

  “That it is. I came by to see if there isn’t some accommodation to be reached in the matter of my son’s contract and this claim for damages you have asserted.”

  Baynard grew angry and red. “You did this! Extortion! This is extortion!”

  “Be careful what you say,” Stephen said, shocked.

  “This was arson, you idiot. And he means to profit by it.”

  “This was arson?” Stephen said.