The Wayward Apprentice

by Jason Vail

  “Oh, you put me in fear, father,” the jailor cackled. “I’m in fear!”

  They reached the castle gate, but could still hear the jailor laughing to himself. “Works with witches!” the jailor shouted.

  “He’d sing a different song if it was him chained to the wall,” Gilbert muttered. They paused to admit a couple of clerks who hurried by on some unfinished business at the end of the day. Gilbert went on, “You sure you want to do this?”

  “You think it’s wrong?”

  “It’s a damned strange price. You could lose your head collecting it.”

  “Maybe so,” Stephen said. “Everybody has a price. This is mine. But whether the price is paid, I’ll find the truth. And it will fall where it falls, for good or ill for Master Bromptone.”

  He pushed past Gilbert into the street.

  “If you live,” Gilbert said to his back.

  Chapter 15

  Stephen blew out the candle and sat on the edge of his bed. After having paid the stabling fee for his horses for the next three months, he’d used the last of the money from returning Bromptone to buy a feather mattress. This was the first night he’d had it on the bed, and he was looking forward to sinking into it. He hadn’t had a feather mattress of his own since he left home many years ago.

  He removed his boots and massaged his stump. It tingled under his fingers. There were knots in the muscles of his foot and he kneaded them out with his thumbs.

  Then he sat for a moment before laying back, savoring the soft mattress. Straw mattresses sometimes felt as though you were sleeping on hard ground.

  The inn below him was silent. Only the occasional thump and murmur of voices announced the retirement of the occupants. Sometimes about now an argument broke out among the guests who had to share a bed, as they negotiated rationing of the available space. But no such argument disturbed this night. There was a scurrying sound overhead: a mouse on its nightly patrol among the rafters. He became conscious that the patter of rain on the roof had stopped. And a silvery glow outlined the closed shutters of his window. The moon was out.

  Seized by a sudden thought, Stephen padded to the window and threw open the shutters. Below, the yard, stables, and orchard lay before him in sharp relief in the lamplight of a three-quarters moon. The sky had largely cleared. Last night would have been illuminated not much differently than this.

  Stephen retied his boots and stumped down the stairway in the dark, in such a hurry that he did not pause for his candle.

  On the last flight, he met Gilbert and Edith on their way up. Gilbert had his arm around Edith’s rather substantial waist.

  “What’s the emergency?” Gilbert said as Stephen blundered past with a hasty apology. “The house on fire?”

  “Come on, I’ve had a thought.”

  “Lord, a soldier who thinks — that’s unusual.”

  “There’s not a moment to spare. The light may change.”

  “The light?” Gilbert asked. He was bewildered, but he handed his candle to Edith. “I’ll see you in a bit, my little sweetmeat. It appears that duty calls. Keep the bed warm for me.”

  Edith grunted, whether from assent or displeasure it was impossible to say. She took the candle and continued upstairs.

  Stephen and Gilbert went out into Bell Lane. Stephen stood at the doorstep and surveyed the street. The lane was so narrow and the inn so tall, as were the other houses on the south side, that the lane was in moonshadow. He looked to the right, toward Mistress Bartelot’s house. A gap in the houses on the south side, like the peaks of mountains, allowed moonlight to fall at the mouth of the alley near the spot where Baynard had died, much as he remembered the moment when he had stood over Baynard’s body.

  Stephen crossed the lane to the head of the alley. Moonlight shone on the wall of Bartelot’s house and partway down the alley. There was a waist-high pile of firewood in the alley. At the end was a tall fence. A man could climb over that fence, but he’d make a lot of noise leaping to the top and clambering over.

  To the left at the mouth of the alley were two large barrels. A spout ran to them from the roof, where there was a gutter to collect rainwater. He looked into the barrels. They were full, their sides mossy. Some people collected water this way so they didn’t have to go to the town well. He dipped a hand in the water and sipped. The water was fresh and sweet. It was only then that he noticed the barrels stood out far enough from the wall that a man might squeeze through the gap. He pondered this fact for a moment. It seemed an unlikely long shot. But then . . .

  “Gilbert,” Stephen said, “go back to our doorstep and watch the mouth of the alley.”

  Puzzled but unquestioning, Gilbert strode back to the inn’s door. As he did so, Stephen stooped and wormed his way behind the barrels. It was a tight fit, but he made it.

  “Now, come across the lane to the spot where Baynard was found and kneel facing Bartelot’s house!” Stephen called.

  “Where’d you go?”

  “Never you mind. Just do it.”

  Stephen heard Gilbert’s measured tread recross the lane. He dared a peek around a barrel and saw Gilbert at the death spot, settling to his knees. Stephen slipped backward, keeping the barrel between him and Gilbert. Ducking low, he scuttled westward down Bell Lane, keeping to the houses along the north wall. About forty yards from the alley, he reached Raven Lane. He ducked around the corner, then peered back to see what Gilbert was doing. Gilbert was standing at the mouth of the alley now, visible only as a silhouette. He was looking up and down Bell Lane.

  “All right,” Gilbert called out. “Stop playing games.”

  Stephen smiled and headed back up Bell Lane.

  “What was that about?” Gilbert asked as he drew up.

  “Did you see me?” Stephen asked.

  “No. I thought I heard you running but I couldn’t see you.”

  “Good.” He quickly outlined what he’d done.

  Gilbert understood at last. “So someone could have hidden in the alley, killed Baynard, and slipped away without Bromptone seeing.”

  “Yes.”

  “But that suggests that whoever killed him lay in wait.” Gilbert motioned toward the alley. “In there.”

  “Which means that the killer lured him out. If we know how, perhaps we can tell who. The question is, who might know?”

  “I’d talk to that thick-necked fellow Clement, or his widow. If anyone knows, they do.”

  Chapter 16

  The cocks crowed as Tuesday morning threw melancholy gray light across the town.

  Stephen rose and pushed open the shutters. Despite yesterday’s rain, the air smelled foul from the burnt privy, which was still smoldering. A dog barked in the yard behind. The stable doors were open, which meant that Harry had already left for Broad Gate. It was getting late. He had better hurry, or the best part of the morning would be lost.

  He washed in the basin beside the window, as he did every morning. The cool water stung his bare skin. He thought about Taresa as he washed. Sometimes she had washed him, drawing the soapy rag, the rinse, and then the towel slowly over his entire body. The memory filled him with sadness. More than six months had passed since her death, but his grief was still sharp.

  He poured the wash water out the window, and got dressed. This was no ordinary day, and ordinary clothes would not do. He struggled into his best shirt and hose, then belted on his sword and picked up the spare blade and shield.

  Gilbert met Stephen at the foot of the stairs. “You’re going then,” he said sourly.

  “I am.”

  “Bromptone may kill you as soon as talk to you. You’re a fool to take that risk.”

  “Fool enough for two men at least.” Stephen smiled.

  “Sure you don’t want me to go with you?”

  “Will Edith let you?”

  “I’m the master of my ship. I don’t have to explain anything to her.”

  “Well, I do. Mother would be most displeased with me if you came along. Anyway, if
things go bad, I’ll need someone good at fighting, not at spouting Latin. Now, if you could throw around an excommunication or two, that might be helpful. But you’ve been out of that line of work for some time.”

  Jennie emerged from the passage leading to the kitchen with a small sack, which she handed to Stephen. “There’s a little extra for breakfast too.”

  Gilbert said, “Damn you, boy. You be careful.” He added softly so the guests couldn’t hear, “I didn’t burn that latrine so you could go get your head hacked off.”

  “Speaking of the latrine, it’s a good day to fill it in. It was stinking to high heaven this morning.”

  Jennie wrinkled her nose. “It is, dad. Can’t you smell it?”

  Gilbert looked aghast that conversation had turned to this topic, for Jennie had no idea of the unmentionable thing that lay in the pit. He sputtered to Stephen, “Go on, get out of here before I make you pay for your dinner.”

  Stephen said, “I’ll see you at supper.”

  “You had better.”

  Stephen waved and went out the side door to the yard. He heard Jennie say, “What was that about?”

  “Never you mind,” Gilbert said.

  Normally there was a groom on duty. But he was not in evidence, and Stephen saddled the stallion himself. The horse pulled away, kicked, snorted, and reared as Stephen tried to slip the bridle over his head so that Stephen was afraid the horse would crush him against the wall. Stephen threw a blanket over the horse’s head, and talked quietly until the stallion calmed down. He gave the stallion a piece of an apple. After a while, the horse allowed him to put on the bridle.

  Bell Lane was awake by the time he emerged from the yard. The old woman Jermina was sweeping off the stoop of the house across the street, while Alric, her son, raked bits of trash before the house, as it was every householder’s responsibility to keep clean the stretch of street before their doorstep. The windows were already open on Alric’s shop and a boy was visible inside cutting leather for a shoe. Behind him on shelves were rows and rows of wooden pattens — the carved forms of people’s feet around which shoes were fitted to the proper size. They all waved as he went by. Next door, Mistress Bartelot sat at an upper window sipping a hot drink that emitted wafts of steam about her long face. Stephen had seen tombstones that were more cheerful. Nonetheless, courtesy required that he call a good day to her. She looked startled at the attention, jerked her head in what Stephen took to be a nod of greeting, and muttered something that might have been a reply, her fingers busy on her massive bronze cross.

  Stephen reached Broad Street and turned north toward the top of the hill where traffic was heavy, both cart and foot. The stallion did not handle the congestion well, but by keeping to the margins, Stephen reached the top of Broad Street without trampling anyone.

  At the top of the ridge, he glanced left for a view of the throng gathering for market day. High Street was filling with merchants and farmers clear to the castle gate. The spots for all the sellers had been marked off with stakes and ropes by the market bailiffs. Many of the sellers had booths — wood-frames with canvas stretched over them to make a little tent and trestle tables — set up in their assigned spaces. Others just backed in a cart or stretched a blanket on the ground.

  Like everyone else, Stephen enjoyed market day. But today, its simple pleasures, the simmering sweet buns, the sausages and cheeses, the fresh baked breads, ale dispensed from a keg in the back of a wagon, the conversation, a game of dice on a blanket, were denied him. The business of death called instead.

  Stephen crossed High and entered College Lane. St. Laurence’s brown bulk loomed to the right, overwhelming the lane, which was just wide enough for two carts to pass each other.

  Baynard house, lying before the little gate into Linney, looked even more mournful than when Stephen had seen it last. Not a window was open, which was unusual since the gray dawn had given way to a cheerful morning of bright sun and scattered clouds. On such a day, everyone was eager to throw open their windows and admit this glorious light. Everyone, it seemed, but the Baynards. Someone had nailed a big strip of black ribbon to the door frame, a sign the house was in mourning as if in warning for visitors to go away.

  Stephen knocked on the door. The thuds of the knocker echoed up the empty lane. No one answered. He knocked again and waited. Still, no one came. He began to think the family wasn’t at home.

  He was about to turn away when the door opened a crack. “Yes?” It was Muryet, the butler.

  “I’d like to see Clement,” Stephen said.

  “I’m afraid that’s impossible.”

  “Why?”

  “He is not at home.” Muryet started to close the door. Stephen put his shoulder against the door panel.

  “Where is he?”

  The little man looked startled at this, but did not attempt to close the door any further. “None of your business.” He called into the interior of the house, “Howard! Come quickly.”

  Within moments, a hulking man loomed behind the little one. “What’s happening, sir?”

  “This person is being rude. Please see him on his way.”

  “Gladly, sir.” Howard pulled open the door. Stephen stepped back to avoid falling on his face. Howard reached for Stephen’s lapel. Stephen grasped Harold’s wrist before he achieved a grip and struck him sharply on the elbow with the other hand. Howard cried out and cradled his injured arm to his chest.

  “If you want to keep the arm, go back inside,” Stephen said. He returned his attention to the little man, whose shock at Stephen’s treatment of Howard showed plainly on his face. Stephen said, “If he touches me, I’ll have you both attached to answer for assaulting a crown officer. This is official business. Your name’s Muryet, correct?”

  The small man regarded Stephen haughtily, intimidated neither by Stephen’s position nor the threat. “I am William Muryet.”

  “I understand you’re the butler.”

  “That’s correct.”

  “Do you live in this house?”

  “I have rooms here.”

  “Were you on duty the night Master Baynard died?”

  “What is this about?”

  “Answer the question now, or answer it again before the jury.”

  “The inquest is closed. I was there. I saw it.”

  “I have opened it again.”

  Muryet said, “I was on duty.”

  “Why did Master Baynard leave the house after curfew?”

  “I don’t know.”

  The answer came too quickly. “I don’t believe you.”

  The little man’s mouth worked again. “He had a message.”

  “From whom?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “Who was the messenger?”

  “There was no messenger that any of the household saw. There was a knock on the door. When I answered it, I found a note pinned to the door.”

  “What did it say?”

  “It was addressed to the master and sealed. I am . . . was . . . not in the habit of reading his correspondence.”

  “You delivered it to Master Baynard, then?”

  “Of course.”

  “What did he do with the note?”

  “I have no idea.”

  There was something evasive in Muryet’s eyes. “Baynard read the message?”

  “Yes.”

  “In your presence.”

  Muryet nodded.

  “What did Baynard do with the note after he read it?”

  Muryet hesitated. “He put it on the table.”

  “The table in the hall?”

  “No, he has a library. He does his work there.”

  “Well, then, it should still be there, shouldn’t it?”

  “I wouldn’t know.”

  “Why?”

  “I do not concern myself with the master’s affairs.”

  “And you swear you did not read the note at any time either before or after your master’s death?”

  “Of cours
e I did not read it.”

  Stephen said, “What did Baynard do after he put it down?”

  “Put what down?”

  “The note.”

  “He went out.”

  “Did he say where he was going?”

  “No.”

  “Did he often just run off after dark without a word where he was going?”

  Muryet said nothing.

  “Wasn’t his wife concerned? It’s quite odd for a man to rush off like that after dark without a word to anyone.”

  Muryet hissed, “Listen, you. The master had his business. Sometimes it involved a young woman. He was a rich man and entitled. We never asked questions. No one ever asked questions. Hear?”

  Stephen was taken aback. Had Baynard just gone out to see a woman? It was a reasonable explanation. He could have rushed out to see her and encountered Peter Bromptone by accident. Instead of a plot, it could just as easily have been coincidence.

  Stephen was about to ask for the note, but his pause was all that Muryet needed to slam the door in his face. “Good day!” Muryet shouted through the door.

  Stephen called his name and knocked, but no one came.

  Arnold Bromptone descended the stairs of Wickley manor to where Stephen waited in the yard. He said, “You have nerve coming here.”

  “Ancelin Baynard is dead,” Stephen said.

  Bromptone managed to look convincingly surprised. “Of what? His bad temper?”

  “I think you know.”

  “Are you accusing me?” Bromptone’s face was thunderous.

  Stephen handed him Peter’s letter.

  Bromptone paused before taking it, as if the parchment was poisoned.

  “It’s not a warrant, if that’s what you’re worried about,” Stephen said.

  Bromptone examined the wax for a seal, but there was none; it was just a plain daub of green wax. He broke the seal and read the letter, his expression growing more angry. He slapped the letter. “Peter is accused of the crime?” he sputtered. “What nonsense! He’s not capable of this. The boy’s headstrong, but he’s run from fights ever since he was a child. He could talk a man to death, but stab him? No.”