The Wayward Apprentice

by Jason Vail

  But Fitzsimmons hooked Stephen’s leg and they fell together. Fitzsimmons landed on top and scrambled to mount Stephen’s chest. He pried up Stephen’s helmet and began to beat him in the face with a fist. The wounded arm was not so wounded after all! It held Stephen’s head still while the other fist did the work.

  Stephen tried desperately to ward off the blows by sheltering beneath a forearm, but that did no good. Fitzsimmons’ fist landed solidly on his neck and chin again and again.

  Barely conscious, Stephen realized that by accident his left hand had grasped Fitzsimmons’ right wrist. The glimmer of an opportunity presented itself. He roused himself for a final effort. If this did not succeed, there would be no other. Fitzsimmons would win and he would die. As Fitzsimmons raised his left hand for another blow, perhaps the last he would need, Stephen reared up and snaked his right arm over and around Fitzsimmons’ right. Straining with everything he had, he managed to reach and grasp his own left wrist. He had achieved the underkey, one of best of the armlocks. He sank back and twisted Fitzsimmons’ trapped arm. Fitzsimmons fell forward and to the side, landing hard on his face. Cranking on the lock, Stephen rolled onto Fitzsimmons’ back. Then he drew his dagger. He pressed the point to beneath Fitzsimmons’ chin.

  “Do you yield now?” Stephen panted.

  Fitzsimmons hesitated, then nodded.

  “The feud,” Stephen said, “it’s finished?”

  Again, Fitzsimmons nodded.

  Stephen hauled Fitzsimmons to his feet, but did not release him. “Good. Then we have other unfinished business. In the name of the crown, you’ll come with me.”

  Stephen guided Fitzsimmons through the churchyard gate. The members of the wedding party backed away to clear the path for them, awe and astonishment on their faces.

  At the church door, he paused. There was something there that tickled his mind. But he couldn’t put his finger on what it was.

  Stephen continued into the nave of the church.

  Fitzsimmons found his tongue at last. He wheeled on Stephen, who let him go, and demanded, “What’s this about?”

  “I’ve some questions to ask,” Stephen said.

  “I’ve nothing to say to you.”

  “You have sanctuary here. I’ll not trouble you, no matter what you say. But I will have my answers.”

  Fitzsimmons’ eyes narrowed. “What do you want?”

  “Did you fire Baynard’s mill?”

  Fitzsimmons laughed shortly. “No.”

  “Did you cause it to be fired?”

  Fitzsimmons stood silent.

  Stephen pushed him to the back of the nave to the altar. He pressed Fitzsimmons’ hand on it, just as he had pressed Pris’ hand.

  He said, “On your oath and by God, did you cause it to be fired?”

  Fitzsimmons looked worried for the first time. At last he said with difficulty, “I gave the order.”

  Stephen nodded. “Did you have him killed as well?”

  Fitzsimmons gritted his teeth. But he said, “No.”

  “Did you kill him yourself?”

  “No, but I wish I had. He deserved it, as much as you do.”

  Stephen was stunned at the answer. He had been certain that Fitzsimmons was behind Baynard’s death. It was the only explanation that made sense. “On your oath?”

  Fitzsimmons relaxed and lost the worried look. “On Christ’s blood, I had nothing to do with Baynard’s death.”

  Stephen turned away, thinking hard. But if not Fitzsimmons, then who? He had been so sure — so confident that he had wagered Peter Bromptone’s life on this single throw of the dice.

  He saw the wedding party, which had followed him into the church to see what was up, staring at him in shock and amazement.

  He tried to think. He had just seen something important, but his thoughts moved like sludge. His head throbbed like a drum and his right eye could open only a slit. It would be swollen shut before long.

  Then the sludge seemed to speak in his mind. Stephen strode rapidly to the church door. Gilbert followed him closely and nearly had to trot on his shorter legs to keep up.

  “What is going on, my boy?” Gilbert asked anxiously. “You look like a hound on the scent.”

  Stephen found the writing tablets by the door and picked them up. Three of the tablets were covered in childish hand. The fourth was in blocky, rather awkward but adult letters, which were familiar.

  Stephen’s eyes ran over the members of the wedding party. He saw Hamo frowning at him. “This is your hand, isn’t it.”

  Hamo nodded. “Of course. The pupils copy this work.”

  “And you are Priscilla’s uncle?”

  Now Hamo looked astonished. “I am not yet, but will be shortly.”

  Stephen felt again as if the world had suddenly gone quiet. He swung about and found Edgar in the crowd. He said to Hamo, “So it was to Edgar you gave the note?”

  “What note?”

  “You remember the note very well — the one commanding a meeting on Sunday night outside the Broken Shield. The note that led Baynard to his death. You know the note I mean.”

  Hamo’s mouth fell open. “I wrote no such note!”

  Stephen advanced on Hamo, menace in his voice and posture. “But you did write a note about a meeting at the Broken Shield, didn’t you.”

  Hamo nodded, quaking. “I wrote a note, but I know nothing about Baynard. I had nothing to do with his death.”

  But there was a false ring to his denial, and while Stephen pressed Hamo, Edgar had edged toward the church door. When Stephen’s eyes fell on him a second time, he ran to the altar and placed his hand upon it.

  Stephen pressed on again. “You gave the note to Edgar.”

  “No!” Hamo cried in anguish. He saw where this was going; they all saw it.

  Stephen had another revelation. He said softly, “You gave it to Molly.”

  Hamo’s mouth worked.

  “She’s your sister, isn’t she.”

  Hamo nodded.

  “She asked you for the note.”

  Hamo nodded again.

  The vision of a ledger page swam into Stephen’s mind. “She knew Baynard would come because you had informed for him in the past.”

  As Hamo stammered, Molly made a break of her own, but not to the altar. She tried to shoot past Stephen. He caught her arm. She punched him in the face. The blow landed on his right eye. The pain was so great that he let her go. Gilbert made a grab for her but she fended him off with a stiff arm and vanished through the church door.

  Stephen straightened up, cupping his wounded eye, which had now closed completely. He saw with detached amazement that there was blood on his hand.

  Gilbert waddled in pursuit, but Stephen called him back. “Let her go. We’re not finished here.”

  The wedding party was shouting, although Stephen had not registered the noise. He pushed through the screen of people and stalked to Edgar, who trembled at his approach. Fitzsimmons, who seemed absorbed in these unexpected and strange developments, watched with folded arms.

  “It was because of your father, wasn’t it, Edgar?” Stephen said.

  Edgar nodded, both hands gripping the altar as if Stephen might try to pry him away from it. “He-he-he killed dad!” He seemed to find courage from somewhere, for he added with greater strength. “Mamma said it was the only way we’d get justice — the old way.”

  Suddenly Stephen felt heavy and tired. The old way, feud. It was a way open to all, not just to aggrieved knights. The elaborate edifice of the law had not succeeded in eradicating private vengeance. By ancient custom, Edgar had acted properly. But modern justice made no allowance any longer for that old way.

  Stephen said, “So you hid in the alley and waited for him.”

  Chin high, Edgar nodded. Although he was frightened, it was clear he was proud of what he had done.

  “You were interrupted perhaps by the argument between Bromptone and Baynard?”

  “I waited until it was over and
the other man, that fellow Bromptone, stepped away.”

  “And you killed Baynard with his own dagger. An easy tool to reach if his back was turned.”

  Edgar nodded savagely. “It was only fitting to use the knife that killed my father.”

  Stephen had what he needed now to set Peter Bromptone free and to return him to his beautiful wife. But there was a final fatal thread, which had only now occurred to him, still not tied up. He had to follow it until the whole business was done.

  “I suppose Pris told you,” Stephen said almost off-handedly.

  “She told me everything!”

  “She didn’t see it done, you know. It was dark and raining. She only saw Baynard with a bloody knife afterwards — rather like the Mistress Bartelot saw Peter.”

  “What are you saying?”

  “That Baynard didn’t kill your father.”

  “How’s that possible! Pris was there. Tell him, Pris!”

  Pris started to speak, but Stephen stopped her with a raised hand. “No, I don’t think it was Baynard. He was left handed, and the man who stabbed Patrick struck with the right hand.” He swung around. “But there was a man there who is right handed. That man,” Stephen said raising a finger at Clement.

  Clement’s mouth fell open. He turned and ran out of the church, several men from the wedding party in pursuit.

  Stephen left the altar and drew up to Johanna, who oddly had not run. He said, “If you don’t want to be appealed for murder as an accomplice, you’d better tell me what happened. You were there. You saw it all.”

  Johanna struggled with the words. “He made me keep silent. He said he’d kill me and Pris if I ever spoke of it.”

  “But he isn’t here any longer.”

  “No, him, not Baynard — Clement!”

  “I don’t think you’ll be troubled by him either. But you will be by me.”

  Haltingly, Johanna’s story came out: Edgar’s interest in Pris, her opposition, Patrick’s attempt to win her over, Baynard’s and Clement’s unexpected appearance, the argument, much as Pris had recounted it to Stephen. “Ancelin always had an ungovernable temper,” she said. “It was why I stopped seeing him. He could be jealous and when he was in a rage, he beat me.”

  “But we’re not concerned about you,” Stephen said implacably. “What happened in the yard?”

  “He lost his temper, as I was about to tell you. He lost it — but gave his dagger to Clement and told him to deal with Patrick.” A tear rolled down her cheek. “Deal with him, he said. And Clement — he took the knife and caught up with Paddy at the edge of the field — and drove the knife into his ribs and just walked away. Paddy stood there looking surprised, the rain running off his face. Then he just staggered off across the field, and that’s the last I saw him alive.” She shook her head. “You know, I loved all three men once. Now two are dead and you’re about to take the last one.”

  Stephen shook his head. He was right at last, but there was thin satisfaction in it.The truth had a habit of turning out to be other than as expected.

  The men who’d taken after Clement appeared in the church door. Clement sagged between them. His face was bloody and bruised. Stephen guessed he was lucky to be alive, for these men must have been Patrick’s friends, if not relatives. They pitched Clement to the dirt floor and wiped their hands with satisfaction.

  Edgar launched himself at the prostrate form with a snarl, but Stephen caught him by the collar and shoved him back toward the altar. “You best stay by the altar if you hope to maintain your claim of sanctuary.” He added to the men who’d made the catch, “Find something to tie him with. He’ll have to answer to the sheriff.”

  He turned to the man and the boy by the altar. “As for you two, you’ve a choice. You can surrender to the crown or you can abjure the realm. I have no power to ignore the crimes you’ve confessed to, even if I wanted to. Which will it be?”

  Fitzsimmons chuckled humorlessly. “I’ll abjure.”

  “And you, boy?” Stephen said to Edgar, who looked anxiously at Pris as she came to his side.

  “I’ve no choice but to leave, haven’t I?” Edgar said miserably.

  “None, really, if you want to live.”

  “I’ll go then.”

  Pris wailed and her head sank to his chest.

  “She can’t go with you,” Stephen said. “You have to go alone. You’ve two days to leave for Bristol. That’ll be your departure point.”

  Pris began to cry harder, and Edgar didn’t look far from tears himself. Fitzsimmons seemed unmoved by the pronouncement. He leaned against a wall and spat. He beckoned to Gervase Haddon, and they conversed in terse whispers.

  Stephen asked Hamo to fetch the hundred bailiff, and waited for him outside in the shade of the yard. Now that the excitement was over, he was aware how every pore of his body ached. He yearned for a drink and to lie down.

  Gilbert hissed in his ear, “It’s getting late! We must hurry!”

  It was late. By now, most people would be getting up from St. Michael’s feast, and Peter Bromptone would soon be hanged. Stephen said, “I have to wait for the bailiff, you’re the one who taught me that. You go, tell the sheriff’s man we have evidence that will exonerate Bromptone.”

  “He won’t stay the execution without a writ!”

  “Then make one. On my authority.”

  Gilbert blinked dubiously.

  Stephen said, “Who’ll countermand it? Valence? He’s miles away at that manor of his, probably in the midst of celebrating St. Michael’s feast as we stand here.”

  “I was rather thinking the sheriff’s man might just ignore it.”

  “Throw your weight around, invoke Sir Geoffrey’s name. Do whatever you have to do. Don’t we represent the crown?”

  Gilbert stroked his chin. “I suppose we do, at that, don’t we? I’ve never done this, stay an execution. Are you sure a simple writ’s the proper procedure?”

  “I have no idea, but it has to be.”

  “What would be the proper form for such a writ?”

  Stephen wanted to stamp his foot in frustration. “Just write something, anything!”

  “I’ll do my best,” Gilbert said, and hurried away.

  Stephen paced nervously through an agonizing wait until the hundred bailiff rushed up, followed by two of his reeves.

  “We’ve a pair of criminals, a murderer and an arsonist, who’ve sought sanctuary in the church,” Stephen told him. “They’ve agreed to abjure the realm, so we’ll need a watch put upon the church until they’ve been given the proper clothes and set out. A single man should do it. Round the clock, though, understand? The church shall not be unwatched until they go.”

  “Right, sir,” the bailiff said. “But just one man? That’s really not enough. They might try sneaking out one of the back windows, if you know what I mean.”

  “One should be enough,” Stephen said. “Unless you’ve a few eager men who’d like to volunteer for the work.”

  “Oh, no. It’s hard enough getting men to stand on watch. One man it is, if that’s what’s wanted. On your authority, sir.”

  “Good.” Stephen stretched. “I need a drink.”

  The bailiff tugged his hat. “If I may say so, sir, you certainly look as though you need one. You seem to’ve been through hell.”

  Stephen smiled. The effort reopened some nasty splits on the inside of his lips. Several of his teeth felt loose, but none had been knocked out. He had been lucky. “Maybe not through hell, but close. Very close.”

  Wasting no further time, Stephen rushed in search of his horse.

  Chapter 25

  Stephen careered up Broad Street and turned the corner onto High at the top of the ridge. He swerved around a cart, startling its draft horses. The driver pulled hard on the reins as they reared. He shouted an oath and shook his fist. Stephen ignored him and prodded the stallion with his spurs. It was a straight shot to the castle gate, and there just entering the gate was Gilbert’s rotund figure, bumpin
g precariously on the mare. The stallion pounded up High Street, head down, body stretched, long legs reaching for and grasping the ground as he pulled it behind him.

  A fair number of people were already making their way up High Street to the castle for the hanging. They heard Stephen coming and jumped out of the way with alarm as he streaked by.

  It was less than two hundred yards from the corner of Broad Street and the castle gate, and within moments he had to slow to enter that narrow aperture, although he didn’t pause as the watchmen came out of their recesses to see what the commotion was about. They gaped at his battered face and armor, and he could image what they must be thinking: there must have been a calamity, a rising by the barons, an attack by the Welsh, or some such danger; and they made no effort to stop or to question him.

  Gilbert was just passing through the inner gate beside the big square tower that had been the fortress’ original keep. Stephen cantered across the big outer bailey, passed the scaffold, a long square-cut beam suspended on frames in the shape of the letter A which had been erected beside the path from the outer gate. He was surprised at the size of the crowd already collected there. Large knots of people ranged about the grass. They gaped at Stephen too.

  He crossed through that second gate to the much smaller inner bailey. Gilbert was just dismounting before the whitewashed timber hall.

  “Oh, hello there,” Gilbert said a little breathlessly. “Thought you weren’t coming.”

  “You ride slowly,” Stephen said.

  Gilbert was miffed. “I had to spare the time to draft your writ.”

  “You’ve got it?”

  Gilbert produced a roll of parchment from his sleeve.

  “I hope it’s legible.” Stephen snatched the roll and strode into the hall.

  “Better than you could do yourself, I’ve no doubt,” Gilbert said behind his back as he followed Stephen in.

  The castle’s feast of St. Michael had evidently just concluded. The aroma of roast goose hung in the air. Most of the diners had risen from their places and were congregating around the wine barrels along the far wall. Servants had already started taking down the tables and stacking them in the rear behind the fireplace. A pair of greyhounds were snarling over scraps, bumping into people and causing a commotion, some of the squires urging them on. A knight aiming to break up the disturbance grabbed one of the squires by the nape of his collar and flung him toward the main door.