The Wayward Apprentice

by Jason Vail

  “He wants to know what happened, mum. Go ahead, tell him, just like you told us.”

  “Well, then,” Jermina said in a voice so thin it was almost a hiss. “I couldn’t sleep. I often have trouble sleeping, you know. So when I do, I just get up, and sometimes that helps. I was sitting up by the window —”

  “She has the front room overlooking the street,” Alric interjected.

  “— looking at the stars and these men began shouting. A terrible argument it was. They said horrible things to each other, foul things. I’ve never heard two men use such words in my house.”

  “They weren’t in the house, mother,” Alric said.

  “It doesn’t matter. I was in the house and I could hear them.”

  “What men were they?” Stephen asked.

  “Oh, that man.”

  “What man?”

  “That awful man. That man who died, and another.”

  “Can you give me his name?”

  “I thought I’d already done so.”

  “I didn’t hear it.”

  “Oh. Why, that fellow Baynard. He owes my Alric money. Hasn’t paid. Said he won’t until he gets satisfaction. Nasty man. You must know him. Everyone does.”

  “We’ve met. Who was the other man.”

  “What other man?”

  “The man with whom Master Baynard was arguing.”

  “I don’t know.”

  “What did they say?” Stephen asked, straining to contain his exasperation.

  “I’ll not repeat such words.”

  “Not the curses. What were they arguing about.”

  “It had to do with a woman. He had come to visit a woman.”

  “Who had come? Baynard?”

  “Oh, no, young man, although I daresay he has a mistress or two tucked in around town. All his sort do. No, it was the other fellow.”

  “The young man has a mistress?”

  “No, that Baynard man. Horrible man.”

  “Could you identify the younger man?”

  “Oh, no. I never saw his face.”

  “Did you see the killing?”

  “Certainly not.”

  Stephen resisted the urge to drum his fingers on the arm rests. “Thank you, mother. That has been very helpful. Alric, do you have anything to add?”

  “No, your honor. We sleep at the back of the house. We heard nothing untoward.”

  Stephen glared at the crowd. “Is there anyone else who can shed light on this matter?”

  Over the next hour a number of people living on Bell Lane came forward to tell their stories. They had heard the altercation too, but had not seen it. None could identify the killer.

  After the last such witness, there was a long pause. Stephen was about to adjourn the matter so the jurors could canvas the neighborhood, in case there was a witness who had not come today because of the rain. Then a gaunt women stepped from the crowd. She was somewhere close to fifty. Her face was a study in vertical lines with deep clefts at the corners of her eyes and mouth which gave her face a boxy appearance. She dressed all in black and wore a bronze cross on a heavy chain round her neck.

  Although she lived alone across the street from the Broken Shield, Stephen struggled to recall her name. Then it popped into his head: Felicitas Barelot.

  “Widow Bartelot,” Stephen said. “You know something of this?”

  “I do indeed,” Mistress Bartelot said in a voice severe and formal. “For I saw it happen.”

  Stephen was inclined to be skeptical, given what he had heard so far.

  “Go on,” he said.

  “Or I should say, I saw its aftermath,” Mistress Bartelot said primly.

  “You did not see the blow struck,” Stephen murmured.

  “I did not. Like the others who testified today, I heard the shouting. Unlike some of them, I opened my window to see what was the matter, and I had a good view of things, for the men were at the mouth of the alley that runs beside my house, so it was an easy thing to peer out and see them.”

  “What did you see?”

  “I saw a man who had just fallen lying on the ground and another kneeling over him. I did not see them well, for it was dark in the alley.”

  “So you did not see the killer’s face?”

  “To the contrary. I saw it quite plainly. Not then, but a moment later, when he stepped from the corpse and into the moonlight. Yes, I saw his face then.”

  “Who was it? Did you know him?”

  “I knew him. So do many of the people in this room. For he is here, undoubtedly pretending innocence, thinking that he was not seen, that he has done his murder in secret.”

  For a moment, there was a silence so profound that Stephen could hear droplets from a leak in the roof splash into a puddle behind him. Then a great shout, as if from a single voice, bellowed from the crowd as everyone began talking at once.

  Stephen bellowed for silence, and when it finally arrived, he asked Mistress Bartelot, “Who is that man?”

  “There he is,” she said. “That little man, there.”

  In the gloom, Stephen could not make out to whom Mistress Bartelot pointed. But there was a sudden commotion in the crowd, accompanied by shrieks and screams, and much shouting. Stephen swept off his chair. When he had forced his way through the press, Stephen found two burly men had hold of a small man by the arms. His head hung down so Stephen could not immediately tell who it was. Then the little man raised his head. His eyes were wild with fear.

  It was Peter Bromptone.

  Chapter 14

  “It wasn’t me,” Peter said desperately but firmly. “We argued, but I swear, I didn’t kill him. He was alive when I left him.”

  Stephen regarded him with a coldness partly tinged with dismay. He’d rather liked Peter. He had seemed decent and not the sort to resort to violence, but you could never tell about a man. “But you were seen standing over him.”

  “I won’t deny it. I turned away. Then I heard a commotion. I looked around and saw him fall. But when I reached him, he was already dead.”

  “And you saw no one else.”

  After a long pause, Peter said, “No.”

  By this time, the town bailiff had come up with two of his men to formally arrest Peter. Stephen glanced at them, and said to Peter, “A fine story. Fortunately, it’s not up to me to judge its truthfulness. Others will have that duty. It’s enough to find that there is a reasonable suspicion you may have done murder. That’s all we are charged here to do. And I think we have more than enough for that. You are attached to appear before the crown court. Until then you can make the acquaintance of the jail. The bailiff can have you now.”

  As Gilbert scribbled out the reports of the session, the crowd broke up and began streaming out the front doors into the drizzly afternoon.

  Stephen sat in his chair watching the people shuffle out, feeling glum.

  “Why the long face?” Gilbert asked as he refreshed the quill in the ink pot. “Edith has planned a grand supper for us tonight. Roast beef, of the finest kind. How I love a good roast beef. Oh, and by the way, Jennie came while you were having your heart to heart with young Bromptone. She said that the burning of the latrine was completed. Went quite without a hitch.”

  “Even with the rain?” Stephen asked, still anxious that the body might have been detected.

  “It’s a miracle what man can do with dry branches and a little oil.”

  “At least we don’t have to worry about that.”

  “One hopes not. Too bad about young Bromptone. I didn’t know him well, but he never seemed the sort for killing anyone, let alone his master. Terrible thing, killing a master.”

  “He’ll hang for it,” Stephen said, “when the crown judge gets here. Nobody will tolerate treason like that.”

  “Which will be next week, I believe. The judge is in Hereford now and should wrap up court there by Friday. Edith had a note by the wagon post that his clerks wished to engage rooms starting Saturday night for a week.”

/>   Stephen smiled thinly. “We could have our hanging by next Thursday, then.”

  “I’d say so. Always a nice to have a hanging on a market day. It’s good for business.”

  “Good for business … I hadn’t thought of that.”

  “Of course not, you’re gentry.”

  “Used to be,” Stephen said sourly.

  “Something will turn up, God willing,” Gilbert said. “Don’t give up hope.”

  “I’ve used up my chits with God.”

  “Hush, lad, some priest will overhear you, or that magpie Mistress Bartelot, who wears her religion on her sleeve. Then God knows what penance you’ll have to do for loose talk.”

  “I rather thought she wore her religion round her neck,” Stephen said.

  “Round her neck, indeed,” Gilbert chuckled. He put up his pen and blew on the writing to dry the ink. “There. Finished. We can go now. Perhaps supper will be ready.”

  “I could use a drink. Some Gascon wine.”

  “Hum, Gascon wine. That’ll cost you.”

  “I expected no less, you robber.”

  “Not me. That’s my Edith. Always counting every penny.”

  “With you looking over her shoulder.”

  “Not all the time. She’s very dependable.” Gilbert rolled up the parchment and tied it with a ribbon.

  A figure emerged from the gloom by the door. The scrape of her footfalls across the hall echoed in its emptiness. Stephen saw it was Amicia Bromptone. He wondered with a guilty pang how much she had heard.

  “Next Thursday,” she said heavily, indicating she must have heard quite a lot. “He has just over a week. How much justice will he get from the king’s judge, when he and his father back the barons against the king? Precious little.”

  “On facts as the ones we have heard today, no man would get an acquittal,” Stephen said.

  “They are not the whole facts.”

  “How do you know?” Stephen asked. “Were you there?”

  “I know my Peter! He’s quick with his tongue but not with a knife. He couldn’t have done this.”

  “The evidence suggests otherwise. It won’t be the first time an apprentice killed his master.”

  “What do you know about the life of an apprentice? What do you know about the torment it can be?”

  “I know well enough,” Stephen said. “My father put me out to work for a lawyer in London who was every bit as hard a master as Baynard.”

  Gilbert burst out, “So we may take it that you ran too?”

  Stephen glared at him.

  Stephen went on, “The facts are, Peter could easily have killed Baynard. He surely had reason to.”

  “Reason! What reason!” Amicia cried.

  “You,” Stephen said. “The argument the witnesses recalled was about you. Undoubtedly, Baynard spied Peter going out at night without permission. He deduced Peter was on his way to you. He caught up and forbade Peter to see you, as a master has every right to do. Peter, of course, refused to obey in his usual temperate way. It’s easy to see how such an argument could lead to blows.”

  “You don’t know this!” Amicia gasped.

  “All it takes it is to put the question to Peter. I doubt he’ll deny that he was coming to see you. No one will believe if he denies it anyway, once people learn where you’re staying.” Stephen shrugged. “It is but a small leap to conclude that his confrontation with Baynard led to murder. Men killing over women is a common thing.”

  Amicia clasped her hands as if in prayer. “What can I do to save him?” She asked plaintively.

  “Perhaps you’d be well advised to hire a lawyer,” Gilbert said. “Sometimes the judge will allow a lawyer to speak for the accused. It’s rare, but it has happened.”

  “I have nothing to pay a lawyer,” Amicia said. “Or anyone else to find the truth.” She paused and added in a subdued tone, “At least in money.”

  Stephen looked at her sharply.

  When he remained silent, she added, “Is there no room in your heart for even the slightest doubt of his guilt?”

  “Doubt,” Stephen mused as if to himself. “Doubt. I have plenty of doubt. Gilbert would say my greatest weakness is too much doubt.”

  “Quite right,” Gilbert said.

  “But not about this?” Amicia asked.

  “The Widow Bartelot saw him over the body,” Stephen said. “He had motive, means, and opportunity.”

  Amicia closed her eyes in pain. “I shall have to find another, then.”

  She turned to go.

  “Wait,” Stephen said.

  Amicia turned back to see what he wanted.

  “Let me talk to Peter first.”

  She looked relieved and anxious at the same time.

  Stephen said, “As to payment, if it becomes necessary, what you offer is too high. We will make some other arrangement.”

  Amicia’s hands flew to her mouth. She was about to babble something, thanks or an excuse perhaps, but Stephen raised a hand to stop her. “Go now,” he said. “Edith will be wondering what happened to you, and I’m sure you have work to do.”

  After Amicia fled the hall, Gilbert said, “Well, well. I shall swoon.”

  “Shut up, you old fart.”

  Gilbert tugged Stephen’s arm to force him to his feet. “Come on, you young fart. Supper will soon be on the table. Let’s have that and then go see Peter.”

  “Baynard caught you on the way to see Amicia, didn’t he, Peter,” Stephen said.

  Peter’s mouth drooped. He nodded curtly.

  “Without permission.”

  “Of course, without permission.” Apprentices were not allowed out at night without their master’s permission, although it wasn’t unusual for them to sneak away for the pleasures of the evening. Masters knew they did so, and often chose to look away if no work was neglected. But if the master did not disregard such a breach of the rules and inflicted punishment, it could be harsh.

  Stephen shook his head.

  “It pleased him to deny me that small pleasure,” Peter said bitterly.

  “And you defied him.”

  “I intended to.”

  “As you always defied him.”

  “Only when my rights were at stake.”

  “And when he turned his back, you grabbed his dagger and stabbed him in the back.”

  “No!” Peter shot back. “I never did. I was across the street on the inn’s doorstep when I heard the scuffle.”

  Stephen held Peter’s eyes. Although those eyes were hot with emotion, they were steady. There wasn’t a flicker of guilt in them he could see. “Scuffle?” he said softly. “You didn’t describe it as a scuffle earlier.”

  Peter pressed his lips together and ran his fingers through his hair. “Well, scuffle may not be the right word. A scrapping, like the sound that shoes make. Something that sounded like a thump. I think, but I’m not sure. It was so faint.” His eyes traveled around the interior of the cell as if seeing something other than cold gray stones. “And a gasp, but that was faint too. It all happened so fast.”

  “And then what happened.”

  “I turned back and Baynard was on his knees. At first I thought he’d had a stroke. Then he fell forward as I rushed to him, and I saw the knife.”

  “You saw no one else.”

  Peter shook his head. “The street was deserted.”

  “Not a soul was about?”

  “I saw no one.”

  “But what did you hear?”

  Peter’s face screwed up in an effort to dredge his memory. “I heard someone running.”

  “One person or two?”

  “One person.”

  “In which direction?”

  “Toward Mill Street.”

  “And you still saw no one.”

  “I didn’t look. At that moment Mistress Bartelot raised the hue and cry.”

  “And you ran away.”

  “I was afraid.”

  “It makes you look guilty.”

&nbs
p; “I know. I couldn’t help myself. I didn’t have the courage to stay. I thought perhaps she didn’t see me.”

  “And you came to the inquest.”

  “The entire household came. It would have looked suspicious if I hadn’t. And . . . and . . . I had a note from Amicia that she would be there. I had to see her.”

  Stephen leaned forward, his elbows on his knees. He and Gilbert had the benefit of stools, but Peter sat cross legged on the floor before them. Stephen had placed his stool in the middle of the cell. Gilbert, however, had remained close to the door, in case the jailor decided to eavesdrop.

  Stephen ran over in his mind what Peter had said and all his impressions of Peter’s behavior. A good liar deceives with more than words alone: the tone of voice, the cast of eye, a well-timed gesture — a harmony of effect coated the lie in the trappings of truth. If Peter was deceiving him, he was doing a good job. Everything he had said and how he had carried himself seemed truthful. In the end, however, Stephen wasn’t sure that it really mattered.

  Stephen delved into his belt pouch and removed a leaf of parchment, a little red clay ink bottle, and a wooden stylus. “I want you to write your father a letter,” he said.

  Peter looked at him in bewilderment. “Why?”

  “What he decides to do determines how much I can help you.”

  Peter smoothed the parchment on his legs and reached for the ink bottle and stylus. He spun the stylus in his fingers for a moment, thinking. Stephen wondered if he would refuse. Then Peter nodded.

  Stephen smiled. “Good. Take down exactly what I say.”

  Stephen and Gilbert passed the jailor, a skinny man with a harelip who was peeling an apple with his knife.

  “Get a confession?” the jailor said.

  “No,” Stephen said.

  “Got to beat them, that’s how to do it,” the jailor cackled. “This jawing doesn’t do no good. Never can break a man with words.”

  “A confession under torture is rarely useful,” Gilbert said.

  “Ah, you’re the clerk who was a priest,” the jailor spat. “Course you’d say that. Mercy don’t get you nowhere, father. Deal with his sort long enough and you’d know that.”

  “Make sure the boy isn’t touched, or I’ll show you the meaning of mercy,” Gilbert snapped.