by Mel Starr
“Aye,” the squire agreed. “But they are not alone.”
“So I am told. Sir Giles was not liked, I know.”
I bid Fulk keep his temper under control and returned to the screens passage where I had told Roger to await my return. He had done so, unwillingly. I told the strapping youth to follow, and returned to the garden, where I might converse with him as with Fulk, away from prying ears.
“You accused Sir Humphrey of wishing Sir Giles Cheyne dead,” I began.
“Aye, because he surely did.”
“Did not Sir John desire this also?”
“No man believes that Sir John fled the field at Crécy.”
This was not an answer to my question. The squire knew well why his master would be pleased at Sir Giles’s death. His reply was proof of this.
“You did not answer my question. Is Sir John pleased that his nemesis is dead?”
“Probably. I’ve never asked him.”
“If all men know that Sir John was no coward at Crécy, why would Sir Giles continue to repeat the charge? It seems to me that he would know soon enough that others did not believe his accusation. If it was known to be false.”
“It was false, whatever men may say behind their hands.”
“So then all men do not know the taunt to be false?”
Roger did not reply, caught in his own conflicting words.
“I know what you’re about,” the lad finally said.
“And what is that?”
“Prince Edward wants some man to hang for slaying his favorite. You seek his preferment and to get it will send some man to the scaffold, be he guilty or not.”
“This is what knights and squires and pages here at Kennington say among themselves?”
“Aye, it is,” Roger said firmly.
Here was troubling news. If Prince Edward’s guests and retainers thought I was untrustworthy, seeking only to blame some man, guilty or not, for Sir Giles’s death regardless of truth, I was not likely to learn from any man facts which would lead to the guilty. Rather, I was likely to be told that which would send me in pursuit of some man the questioned wished to impugn. If they thought I would not care who hanged or went to the block, neither would they. So long as ’twas not them.
Roger wore a dark grey cotehardie, nearly black, and a cap of lighter grey with a long, stylish liripipe wrapped twice about his head. I remembered with a start where I had seen a man in similar raiment. One of the four who had chased Arthur and me upon the road had been similarly garbed. The fellow had been one of the two who halted pursuit when he saw his companions fall in the newly plowed field. Until that moment he had been closing the distance between himself and me and Arthur while waving a sword above his head. The liripipe he wore then was wrapped about his face like a scarf so that it covered all but his forehead and eyes.
This pursuer had carried his sword in his left hand, with his beast’s reins grasped in his right hand. I resolved that at the next meal in Kennington’s hall I would watch to see which hand Roger de Clare used to feed himself.
Chapter 12
Roger used his left hand to eat his dinner the next day. Four other squires now sat between him and Fulk, creating an uneasy distance between the two. Fulk, I saw, had a darkened eye.
As I consumed my dinner I considered how I might learn where Roger de Clare had spent the previous day when Arthur and I were waylaid upon the road. If Roger was indeed one of those who meant us harm he would likely have been sent on the errand by Sir John. It would do little good, therefore, to ask Sir John of his squire’s whereabouts a day earlier. He would claim the lad was at Kennington with him all day.
Prince Edward’s marshal would know if Roger had required his horse a day past. I resolved to seek him when the meal was done.
Sir Harold Shippen was unsure of Roger de Clare’s movements. Knights and squires and even pages were, he said, regularly seeking their steeds to travel hither and yon. He would ask of a groom.
“Aye,” the fellow said. “Came for ’is beast about the third hour, perhaps a bit earlier.”
“When did he return? Was he back for his dinner?”
“Nay. Returned the horse in the afternoon.”
“About the ninth hour, would you say?” I asked.
The groom pulled at his beard, then replied, “Later. Near to supper.”
“Did the horse seem ill used?”
“Aye, now you mention it. Sweat dried upon the animal. ’Ad to wipe ’im down.”
“Was Roger alone when he departed Kennington yesterday, or when he returned?”
“Aye, by ’isself, both goin’ and comin’.”
If Roger de Clare was one of those who had set upon us on the road, where did he find three companions? Or did they, or one of the three, find him? And would he wear the same garb at supper as he had worn when pursuing me a few hours before? Would the squire not consider that I might recognize his clothing? Perhaps not. Grey cotehardies are common enough. And was the assailant upon the road truly dressed in grey? Might his cotehardie have been dark brown? The day was drear, and I was not at the time in a position to examine the hue closely. But the fellow upon the road was left-handed, as was Roger de Clare.
Perhaps Arthur would recall the event and its participants. I left the stables and sought him.
“Come to think of it,” Arthur said, when asked, “one of them fellows was swingin’ ’is sword with ’is left hand. But ’is cotehardie? Don’t remember. Could’ve been grey, I suppose. Me thoughts was upon other matters. Only thing I remember about them fellows’ dress was that one of ’em, him that took a tumble in that new-plowed field, wore a bright blue cotehardie.”
“The squire to Sir John Pedley is left-handed,” I said, “and wears a grey cotehardie.”
“And Sir John’s one of them that’s not sorrowing now that Sir Giles is dead?”
“Aye. He’ll not lie awake nights grieving.”
At supper that night Roger de Clare wore a green cotehardie. Had he seen me inspecting him from across the hall while at dinner? Perhaps a young squire simply liked to change his attire upon occasion.
Musicians appeared when supper was finished, as was the custom at Kennington Palace. The tables and benches were cleared and stacked against the wall, and gentlefolk danced galliards and pavanes as the light from the windows faded and candles attempted feebly to dispel the gloom.
I enjoy music, but am no dancer. I have not the feet for such sport. So with Arthur I leaned against a wall and watched as knights and their ladies bowed and swirled in time to the tooting and plucking. Sir Giles’s daughter Amabil and Sir Geoffrey Paget were among the dancers, and I noted a remarkable contrast in their demeanors. The maid smiled and threw herself into the galliard with near abandon, while Sir Geoffrey’s face was joyless, his steps stiff and without grace. Perhaps he suffered from an incompetence like my own.
Kennington’s hall is not as large as might be expected for the residence of the heir to the throne. The hall at Berkhampstead, I am told, is larger, and Prince Edward prefers that castle to Kennington except that it is farther from London and the seat of power. So because the dancers were many and the hall was modest in size there was the occasional bumping of elbows, which was generally followed by a bow and reciprocal requests for pardon. But not always.
Roger de Clare danced a tune with a lass I had seen about the palace – the daughter, I had assumed, of a knight in Prince Edward’s service. I discovered later that she was the daughter of Kennington’s butler: a valet who was wed, which is a rare thing in the service of a great noble. She would bring no land and little wealth to a husband, but her inordinate beauty would make the lass popular until the subject of marriage arose.
Roger and Fulk, their attention diverted to their partners, collided, turned to beg one another’s pardon, saw who it was they faced, and thoughtlessly renewed the brawl they had begun the day before. Rather, I should say that Roger renewed the quarrel. Fulk bowed slightly and, although I could not hear his words, gave ev
idence of apology in his manner.
While Fulk’s head was down, his eyes upon the tiles, Roger balled his fist and struck Fulk about the ear. Fulk dropped to his knees, then toppled to the floor. Several women shrieked and the musicians ceased their playing. Pandemonium ensued.
’Tis not meet for a surgeon and bailiff, even if made constable to a prince, to push his way through a throng of gentlemen and their ladies, so by the time I reached Fulk he had regained his wits and was being helped to a sitting position.
Prince Edward, however, may push through any crowd, and he did so. He had left his chair upon the dais, and as I approached Fulk I saw him shove other gentlemen and their ladies aside so as to approach the scene of combat. His choler was up, his face red. But his step was unsteady. No doubt the reason he and Lady Joan had chosen to observe the dance rather than participate. I wondered if my herbs were failing the prince and he should return to a diet of boiled roosters.
“Begone,” he roared. Where he found strength to speak in such a manner I know not. “You were warned! Out of my sight. You are confined this night to your chambers, and will depart Kennington at first light, never to return.”
With this command he stalked to the stairs, evidently having lost interest in watching others prance about his hall.
I did not want Roger away from Kennington Palace until I had had the opportunity to observe his behavior more closely and perhaps question him again. I followed Prince Edward to the stairs and then up to the privy chamber. The valets serving at the door had not yet closed it behind him when I drew near, so he heard me ask entrance, and spoke from the darkened chamber that I was to enter. His voice was weak. I could only just hear his words. His rage in the hall had reduced his strength, and I wondered that he had found sufficient stamina to climb the stairs from the hall.
As I entered the privy chamber the prince called to a valet to place more logs upon the smoldering fire on the hearth, then sat heavily upon his chair and bid me sit upon another.
“What is it? Have you new information of Sir Giles’s death?” he began.
“Some,” I replied. “Whether or not the knowledge is important I cannot yet say.”
“Well, let’s hear it.”
I looked to the valet who tended the fire. I preferred he not hear what I had to say. If he did, I knew that within a few hours a dozen or more valets and grooms would know my thoughts. Prince Edward followed my eyes, saw them resting upon the kneeling valet, and nodded. We sat in silence awaiting the valet’s completion of his task, and while we did Lady Joan entered. I stood. The lady smiled and motioned me to return to my seat, then went to a chair beside her husband.
Only two candles lighted the privy chamber when I entered. The prince commanded the valet to light several more when his work at the hearth was done, then bade the man leave us and shut the door behind him.
“What news have you?” Prince Edward said when we were alone.
“Little news, but I do have a request.”
“Oh? Let’s hear it.”
“Do not send Fulk and Roger away. Not yet.”
I saw the prince redden as he considered the scene in his hall. Perhaps it was the candlelight. Then again, perhaps not. Lady Joan reached out a hand and placed it atop her husband’s.
“Why not? Such squires are a disgrace… to Sir John and to Sir Humphrey and to me.”
“Fulk did not begin this new brawl. The two rubbed elbows accidentally. I saw it all. Fulk bowed to apologize, and while he did so Roger smote him. ’Twas uncalled for. If any should be sent from the palace it is Roger only, but I wish for him to remain. For a few days.”
“Why so?”
“Yesterday we were called to supper before I told you of all the day’s events,” I said. “Returning from Hornsey Arthur and I were set upon. Four horsemen appeared from a wood near the road and gave chase. We managed to escape, either through good fortune or the grace of the Lord Christ. One of those who pursued us held his sword in his left hand and wore a dark grey cotehardie. Roger de Clare wears such a hue, and ate his dinner this day with his left hand. He saw me watching, I believe, for this evening, at supper, he wore green.”
“You believe that squire one of those who would have slain you on the road?”
“Mayhap. I asked a groom of the marshalsea this day if Roger took his horse from the stables yesterday. He did so, and when he returned, after the ninth hour, the beast had been ill used and was covered with dust and dried sweat.”
“I would have thought,” Lady Joan said, “you’d want the fellow far from you if you suspected he was one of those who accosted you upon the road.”
“I must be careful in the squire’s presence, I think, but if he is sent from here I will no longer be able to observe his deeds, nor will I be able to speak more to him of Sir Giles.”
“What has this business upon the road from Hornsey to do with your warrant to discover the felon who slew Sir Giles?” the prince asked.
“I cannot say of a certainty, but I believe there is a man, perhaps men, who believes me near to untangling this knot.”
“Are you?”
“Nay, but some man believes it so and desires my death.”
“And so sent men to slay you upon the road as you returned from Hornsey. If one of these was Roger de Clare this may mean that Sir John sent Arnaud to poison Sir Giles’s cup. Shall you arrest him? I will be sorry to learn this of Sir John. I thought him a virtuous knight.”
“He may well be. Roger may have been employed by some other if he was one of the four who gave chase upon the road, which I suspect but cannot say of a certainty. If you send the squire away I may never know.”
“What is it you wish of me?”
“Put Roger to mucking out the stables for a fortnight and forbid him from taking meals in your hall. But do not send him from Kennington.”
“As you wish. But I will not have the squire in my sight. See to it that he knows what is required of him. And when you do discover who has done murder in my hall, send him off then. If he is not guilty of the felony, that is. Meanwhile he will not only muck out the stables, he will sleep there. Tell Harold Shippen to see to it.”
“I believe him innocent of Sir Giles’s death,” I said, “as I have found no reason for Roger to hate Sir Giles enough to slay him, other than loyalty to his master. But he may have intended murder upon the road yesterday.”
“Would Roger serve Sir John so loyally that he would slay a man to protect his master and thereby risk a noose?” Lady Joan said.
“He might,” Prince Edward replied, “if he thought Sir John had enough influence with me that I would absolve him of the crime. But I would pardon no man who slew my appointed constable.”
“Roger will be unsure of his place after this evening,” I said, “even after he is told that he need not leave Kennington. I will go now and press him about his recent conduct while he is worried about the trouble he may have brought upon himself by striking Fulk.”
“Frightened men may speak more than they would otherwise like to, eh?” the prince said.
“Just so.”
I bowed my way from the privy chamber, having become adept at backing from the room and finding the door without ever seeing it. I had discovered an augury which told me, as I looked down, that I was near to my target. A tile about one pace into the privy chamber from the door had a chipped edge. When my eyes passed directly over this blemish I knew I was little more than an arm’s length from the door.
I went from the privy chamber to the chamber where the squires and pages of the knights who attend Prince Edward are lodged. Fulk was there, but Roger was not. I peered into the dim corners of the quarters, but he was not to be found. If Prince Edward learned that Roger had disobeyed his command he would surely send the squire from Kennington regardless of my desire to keep the lad near until I had learned more of his role, if any, in the felonies before me.
Fulk was sitting upon his bed, a morose expression upon his face, thinking, I am su
re, that on the morrow he would have no position and no home, unless he could return in disgrace to his own father and manor. A thing he would shudder to consider. I sat beside him.
“I saw Roger strike you during the dancing,” I began. “Prince Edward knows you are blameless and that Roger instigated the fight. You will not be sent away tomorrow, although if I were you I would seek to avoid Roger at all cost. The prince’s patience should not be tried overmuch.”
The squire brightened, his bent shoulders straightened. Then I spoke again and his glum expression returned.
“Where is Roger? Prince Edward told both of you to repair to this place.”
Fulk shrugged. “I don’t know. I came here as commanded. I’ve not seen Roger since I left the hall.” From the tone of Fulk’s voice I don’t believe Roger’s absence dismayed him.
“Where would he go of an evening? Most other pages and squires will likely yet be in the hall dancing,” I said. I glanced around the chamber. There were seven other lads within, all giving me and Fulk their attention, straining to hear our conversation. I raised my voice and addressed them all.
“You were all in the hall an hour past and heard Prince Edward direct Roger to come here. He did not do so. Has any man seen where he did go?”
In the dim candlelight I saw the lads look to each other, shaking their heads. One spoke, taking upon himself the responsibility to answer for all.
“Roger was not here when we came from the hall. Fulk was, but not Roger. And he’s not entered since.”
If none of his companions knew where Roger might be I thought I knew of a man who might. I left the squires’ chamber and sought Sir John Pedley and his lady.
Sir John and Lady Ardith occupied a chamber upon the ground floor of the palace, a privileged location. I approached the chamber by passing through the hall, where I saw that Sir John and his lady were no longer present. Neither were most of Prince Edward’s guests. The prince’s eruption against Fulk and Roger had choked off the amusement as surely as a man with a bowstring tightened about his throat will stop breathing. The musicians were packing away their instruments. Candles were burning low in their wall sconces.