Prince Edward's Warrant

by Mel Starr

  One after another shrugged in ignorance. I came close enough to identify the sodden, muddied clothing of the dead man. ’Twas Prince Edward’s livery he wore, and no doubt of it. The ferrymen surely knew this also.

  “The man is likely Arnaud Tonge,” I said. “Valet to the Duke of Cornwall. See, he wears the prince’s livery.”

  The ferrymen cast their eyes down to the corpse, then eyed one another as if seeking confirmation of my assertion. One spoke.

  “What’s to be done with ’im, then?”

  “I will take the man to Kennington Palace. You need not trouble yourselves about him. Where was he when you found him? The tide is receding and the river’s flow is strong.”

  “Seen a foot caught just there,” one of the boatmen pointed, “stuck fast between the pilings.”

  The place indicated was on the upstream side of the bridge. Arnaud, if it was indeed he who lay upon the cobbles, had gone into the Thames somewhere to the west of the bridge, and the current had carried him to the place. Or he had gone into the water from the bridge, on the western side, and fetched up against the pilings as he entered the water. Was he dead or alive when this took place?

  I saw no purse. This might mean that Arnaud had been slain for what it had contained, or it might be that he wore it under his tunic, as men in London oft do, so as to avoid losing it to a cut-purse. I examined the dead man’s tunic, but found no lump of a purse hidden under it.

  Early in the day carts loaded with grain and other victuals brought from the south of London had entered the city. Some had already unloaded their goods and were retracing their journey to the villages whence the provender came. I hailed one of these carters, offering the man six pence to convey me and a corpse to Kennington Palace. I told Arthur to remain at St. Magnus’ Church to advise those who would have searched in vain that Arnaud had been found. So I thought.

  “Hold! What is this?” a voice roared out as Arthur and two of the ferrymen loaded the corpse into the cart. The man who pushed his way through the gathered throng was clearly accustomed to exercising authority, and I saw a badge sewn upon his tunic. ’Twas a serjeant of London’s sheriff who had come upon the scene. I was accustomed to my place in Bampton, where, as bailiff, my jurisdiction was supreme – but for Lord Gilbert. I had not considered that in London others had authority greater than my own.

  Several voices spoke at once, informing the sheriff’s man of what had occurred. My own was one of these. The serjeant shouted for all to be silent, then advanced to me. He had seen that others were deferring to my instructions, and demanded of me who was dead in the cart and where the corpse was to be taken.

  I told him. And I told him that I had the authority of Prince Edward. The serjeant folded his arms skeptically. I invited the fellow to accompany me and the corpse to Kennington Palace and hear from the prince’s mouth that what I said was true.

  The serjeant was reluctant to do this. His warrant ended once we were across the bridge, and if what I had said of my duty to Prince Edward proved false he would have no authority in Southwark to detain me or seize the dead man and return us both to the sheriff and mayor of London.

  As the serjeant pondered my offer, the first of the grooms and pages I had sent to seek Arnaud Tonge appeared. The two men and the lad all wore the prince’s livery. I greeted the fellows and one replied, telling of their lack of success. Then his eyes settled upon the sodden corpse resting in the cart. ’Twas clear to him as he came near that the dead man was clothed in the same way he was, and wore Prince Edward’s badge.

  “Who’s that?” he said.

  “Come near. ’Tis Arnaud,” I said.

  The three pressed close to the cart. The perplexed serjeant watched, his brawny arms yet folded across his chest.

  The older of the grooms bent over the side of the cart to view the dead man. “Ain’t ’im,” he said.

  “What? This is not Arnaud?” I was now as perplexed as the serjeant. “He wears Prince Edward’s livery, same as you. Has any other of the prince’s servants gone missing in the past days?”

  “Nay. But this man is not Arnaud. This fellow’s hair and beard are brown. Arnaud was fair.”

  Perhaps the water had transformed his coloration, I thought. “What color were Arnaud’s eyes?” I asked.

  “Blue,” the groom said.

  I lifted an eyelid of the corpse. The iris was brown.

  “Well?” the groom said.

  “If Arnaud’s eyes were blue and his hair fair, then you speak true. This is not Arnaud.”

  “Wonder who ’e could be,” the groom thought aloud. “Wearin’ the duke’s livery, an’ no doubt of that.”

  I also wondered who it was who lay dead in the cart. I began a closer inspection of the corpse and saw things I should have noted before, but did not, seeing only the livery and badge.

  The dead man’s hair and beard were matted and unkempt. Neither had seen a razor or comb for many days, or even weeks. I lifted a cold, wet hand. The fingernails were long, untrimmed, and filthy. Prince Edward would not have permitted such an appearance in one of his valets. He would not even have permitted a groom to be so slovenly.

  The prince’s servants are well fed. The corpse was scrawny. I lifted a sleeve and saw a bony wrist devoid of much flesh, and under the beard the dead man’s neck was withered under sagging skin.

  Before me lay a man who had acquired the livery and badge of a servant to Prince Edward. The only missing servant, if the groom spoke true, was Arnaud. It must be, then, that ’twas Arnaud’s tunic and badge which had led me to believe this was Arnaud drawn from the Thames dead.

  How did such a man get possession of Arnaud’s tunic? Was it given to him? Did he slay the valet for the garment? Did he find it discarded? And for any of these questions, why, and how? And did his possession of the tunic lead to his death in the river?

  Whatever the answers to these questions might be ’twas now certain that Arnaud could not be identified by Prince Edward’s livery and badge. He would, if alive, be upon the streets garbed as any man. If he had not fled London. Had the valet been paid to poison Sir Giles’s wine? I was sure of it. Had he been paid well enough that he could travel far from London? Had he already begun the journey?

  The serjeant yet stood over the corpse, arms folded. He peered from me to the boatmen to the prince’s newly arrived grooms to the corpse. His enthusiasm for taking control of the situation had waned. He foresaw, I think, a complication for his life this day which he would prefer to avoid. Better this corpse trouble some other man’s life. Mine, perhaps.

  “You act as the duke’s agent in this business?” the serjeant said, then glanced to the prince’s servants as if seeking confirmation.

  They nodded.

  “I’ll release the dead man to you, then,” he said, and without another word turned and strode around St. Magnus’ Church and disappeared in the direction of Billingsgate.

  Three more of the searchers appeared as the serjeant departed the scene. I was about to order the carter to set off for Southwark and Kennington Palace when they approached – hurriedly, I thought, as if they had information about Arnaud. They did.

  The new arrivals glanced at the corpse in the cart and I explained as much of the matter as was known. One known thing was that we had not found Arnaud Tonge dead in the Thames.

  “We found ’is brother’s ’ouse,” a valet announced when I had related to the fellows the events of the past hour and the mystery of the corpse clothed in Prince Edward’s livery.

  “Went about the streets near to St. Paul’s askin’ folk if any knew Arnaud. Found a man what knew Alan Tonge, ’is brother. The fellow said this Alan bragged about ’is brother bein’ valet to the duke. Brother’s ’ouse is on a lane just off the Shambles, across from Greyfriars Church.”

  “Did you question the man about his brother? Has he seen Arnaud in the past day?”

  “Wasn’t ’ome. Wife was there. She said Alan was off on ’is business somewhere. Didn’t know wh
ere. She thought likely he’d gone to the villages north of London where ’e buys ’ides.”

  “This Alan Tonge is a skinner? Has he an appprentice?”

  “Don’t know,” the valet replied. “Probably. Didn’t ask.”

  “One of you who knows the way to the skinner’s house, come with me. Arthur, you come also. The others, accompany this carter to Kennington Palace and see that the marshal pays him six pence for his trouble. Put the corpse upon a catafalque before the chapel altar and tell all that nothing is to be done to the dead man until I have examined him. He is not even to be washed for burial. Not yet.”

  The cart and its escort of Prince Edward’s grooms and valets made for the bridge, and gawkers departed about their interrupted business. Meanwhile the valet who had volunteered to show us Alan Tonge’s house led Arthur and me through teeming streets, past St. Paul’s. When we came to the Shambles I bid the fellow halt. I wished to approach cautiously, unannounced, and observe the place for a while before seeking the skinner’s wife or apprentice. I was suspicious of the woman’s claim that her husband had departed to seek hides in villages away from the city. Every day animals are driven to London and slaughtered, their flesh feeding the citizens. Which means there are hundreds of skins available each day. Although, to be sure, skins of some creatures – beaver, otter, squirrel, rabbit, and fox, for example – are not plentiful in London and must be sought elsewhere. Perhaps Alan Tonge had a commission to make a robe of rabbit skins. ’Twas possible that he might tour the villages for men who could supply such skins.

  I was shown the lane where Alan Tonge resided, and the house. It was substantial, the home of a prosperous burgher. Its upper story was built out over the narrow lane, as was that of the house opposite. The two dwellings came so close together that little sunlight passed between them to the lane.

  From the south end of the lane, standing in the shadows of Greyfriars Church, we had a clear view of the skinner’s house. Beside the structure was a narrow alley which led, I assumed, to a shop in the rear.

  I watched as a baxter approached, calling out her goods and the price, and as she came to the skinner’s house a lass of twelve or so years ran from the door and spoke to the woman. We were too far away to hear the conversation, but not so far that we could not count. The lass held out a sack and the baxter placed six pies in it. The maid placed coins in the woman’s hand, and the transaction complete, the lass scurried into the house while the baxter resumed bawling out her trade.

  “How many children did you see in the house when you spoke to the woman?” I asked the valet.

  The man scratched his head, assembling his memories of the encounter. “Two, I think. That lass what just bought the pies, an’ a little ’un.”

  “How old would you say the younger child was?”

  The valet shrugged. “Seven… mayhap eight.”

  The pies were large. A lass of twelve years and a child of eight years would likely together eat but one. The mother might consume another, if near to starving. Why four more pies than required? Perhaps there were more children in the house than the valet had seen. But enough to eat four large pies filled with stockfish and turnips, as we had heard the vendor proclaiming? It was yet warm enough that pies unconsumed would soon go bad. And the baxter would surely walk this way again on the morrow when pies fresh from the baker might be had. Most such sellers have a regular route for their trade so customers may expect their approach. Something smelled about this business and it was not putrid pies.

  If Arnaud Tonge, his brother Alan, and an apprentice were within the house, they would account for the pies I thought excessive for a woman and two children. The thought of crusty pies, filled with fish and turnips, caused my stomach to growl. No doubt the gentlefolk of Kennington Palace had returned from hawking and were at table in the hall, enjoying Prince Edward’s hospitality.

  We three could stand in the shadows of Greyfriars Church until the sun set and not know if men were hidden in the skinner’s house. And when darkness came, the night would conceal any man who departed the place. If Arnaud was not within his brother’s house, the longer I waited, the more time the fellow would have to escape. While those within the house were consuming their dinner would be a good time to set a scheme in play.

  I told Arthur to go quietly through the alley to the rear of the house, where I assumed the skinner’s workshop would be found. The only window visible which opened to the alley was of oiled skin, appropriate to the owner’s business, so Arthur would not be seen passing through the alley, so long as his shadow did not pass over the window. I warned him of this, and told him I would give him sufficient time to position himself before any door which opened to the alley. The valet and I would present ourselves at the front door and demand of the matron license to speak to her husband’s apprentice, if such a lad was within, and to search rooms if the woman protested that she was alone with her children. Prince Edward’s badge upon the valet’s tunic would act as incentive for the woman to do as asked. If men were within the house, heard my words, and attempted to flee through the alley, Arthur would be well placed to intercept them.

  As I concluded these instructions I saw Arthur glance over my shoulder. I turned to see what had caught his eye. A weary and ancient runcie drew a cart upon which sat two men. This cart had entered the lane beyond Northumberland Inn and was perhaps a hundred paces distant from our location. Yet from that distance ’twas possible to see that one of the fellows upon the cart was not grown to manhood and wore no beard. Here might be a craftsman and his apprentice. I held out a hand to restrain Arthur, who was about to set off for the alley as I had bid him do.

  As we watched, the horse and cart turned into the alley. Here was the skinner and either a son or apprentice. Likely the man’s wife had spoken true. He had been out of the city seeking skins and had now returned. What, then, of the extra pies? Had the skinner’s wife expected his return and prepared for it?

  “Come,” I said, and led the way from the church to the alley, thence to the rear of the house. There was indeed a shop attached there and beyond that a small barn. The horse and cart were halted before the barn, and the man and boy were lifting a bundle from the cart and carrying it into the shop. The runcie stood motionless but for an occasional flick of ears and tail, likely pleased that its labors were concluded.

  The skinner appeared in his workshop door, saw the three of us approach, and stopped in his tracks. I saw dismay in his eyes and thought, “Ah, he sees Prince Edward’s badge on the valet and fears his brother being found within his house.” I failed to consider that a man going about his lawful business might be alarmed to meet three strange men at his door, one wearing the badge and livery of a great prince, another assembled like a cask of salted stockfish set upon two ship’s masts.

  “You are Alan Tonge?” I asked.

  “Aye. Who be you?”

  “I am Hugh de Singleton, bailiff to Lord Gilbert Talbot, but serving Prince Edward this day. Your brother is Arnaud Tonge, a valet to the prince, is he not?”

  “Aye, Arnaud is me brother and serves the prince.”

  “Have you seen him in the past day or two?”

  “Nay. I’ve been away seeking fox pelts. Sir John Relyk wishes a fur coat of me before winter arrives. An’ Arnaud’s duties keep him at Kennington or Berkhampstead… wherever the duke might be. Haven’t seen Arnaud since” – the skinner pulled at his beard – “Candlemas.”

  Alan Tonge was claiming not to have seen his brother for eight months. This did not mean that Arnaud might not be within his house. The man’s wife would have admitted her brother-in-law even if her husband had been away.

  “Why do you ask of Arnaud?” the man said, glancing at Prince Edward’s badge upon the valet’s tunic. “Do you seek him? Is he not at Kennington? Last I knew, the prince was in residence there.”

  I decided to tell Alan as little about his brother’s disappearance as possible.

  “Your brother left Kennington Palace sometime
during the prince’s dinner yesterday. He has not been seen since. Prince Edward is concerned for his welfare and has sent us and others to search for him. Perhaps he came here while you were away?”

  “Not likely, but mayhap. Why’d he leave the duke’s employ?”

  “If we find him, perhaps he will tell us.”

  “Mary will know if Arnaud’s been here. Come.”

  The skinner waved us into his shop, which smelled of hides and rancid flesh and the urine used in tanning. The youth stood aside to allow us to pass, then walked to the cart for the last bundle of skins.

  “Ah. Thought I ’eard voices,” Alan’s wife called through from the passage leading into the shop from their living quarters. “So you’re ’ome. Did you – oh” The woman then saw us behind her husband as she came into the doorway and fell silent. “Who’s this?” she finally said.

  “Men in Prince Edward’s employ,” the skinner said. “Arnaud’s gone missing and the prince wishes ’im found.”

  “Men came this morning seeking Arnaud,” Mary said. “Told ’em you was away an’ Arnaud’s not been ’ere. They wore the prince’s badge, as that fellow does.”

  “A short time ago a lass from this house bought six pies from a baxter,” I said. “How many of you are here present to consume six pies?”

  I thought to catch the woman in some falsehood, but rather ’twas me caught out as Mary enumerated the inhabitants of her house. So I thought.

  “Well, there’s me an’ the children. Alan’s elderly father an’ mother, what lives up the stairs, an’ I had Millie buy two more ’cos I thought Alan an’ John might return today, an’ did they do so they’d be hungry.”

  “As I am,” Alan added.

  I could see no point in delving more deeply into Tonge family matters. Either Arnaud had not visited the house since yesterday or Alan and Mary were skilled players. And as for the many pies brought to the house this day, I had heard, as Mary related the inhabitants, the scraping of a chair upon the floor of the upper story just over my head. Someone was there. Who, and how many pies they might consume, I would trust the woman to know.