by Jason Vail
The yard here too was deserted and quiet. The stables were full, so Stephen tethered the mare at the door, put an oat bag on her, and crossed to the house, skirting a bull chained by his nose ring to a post at the foot of the steps. The bull eyed him with suspicion and then bent back to a little pile of hay beside the post.
The doors were open to let in the light and Stephen knew before he reached the top step from the commotion and clatter that he had arrived at the height of dinner.
His sudden appearance silhouetted in the doorway came as a surprise, for the clatter and clamor ceased abruptly, and all heads swivelled in his direction.
“Good morning,” Stephen said as he slowly removed his riding gloves. “Please don’t let me interrupt you.”
“Well, whoever you are,” said the big man seated in the high-backed chair before the fireplace, “come on in. Take a seat, stranger, and tell us what brings you to Wickley.” He beckoned with a mallet of a hand toward an empty place at a bench on the right. A servant hurriedly left his place at the lower left-hand table to escort Stephen to the spot indicated.
Stephen let himself be led to the spot and sat down. A bowl of water and a towel were placed in front of him so he could wash his hands, and immediately afterward a trencher of sliced lamb on a slab of bread accompanied by a bowl of fish soup, by the aroma, appeared as if out of the ground.
The big man could only be Master Bromptone. He had brown hair only going slightly gray at the temples with flecks of gray streaking his neatly trimmed beard. His eyes were brown also, and revealed a lively intelligence as he surveyed his uninvited guest. His great shoulders strained at the rich green fabric of his coat, and his large fingers hands twirled a spoon.
To the left of Master Bromptone was a severe looking woman who must be his wife. On his right was an equally large and well dressed man who favored a black coat with silver buttons, which went well with his black hair and beard and dark predatory eyes. On the right of the hawk-eyed man was a smaller version of Master Bromptone who looked too old to be an apprentice — an elder son, Stephen guessed. There were two girls of about twelve who took after the wife. The rest appeared to be servants, except for five hard men at Stephen’s table who all wore black livery. The hawk-eyed man’s companions? No one in the hall looked like Peter Bromptone and his new wife.
Everyone waited for Stephen to speak. He finished washing his hands and dried them on the towel, which he handed to the servant, who had remained at his elbow for this purpose.
“Well, good company,” Stephen said, “my name is Stephen Attebrook. And you are Lord Bromptone?”
“I am Arnold Bromptone,” the lord said, exchanging quick glances with his hawk-eyed companion, who was introduced as Nigel FitzSimmons.
Stephen expected Bromptone to give him another opportunity to state his business, and he readied an explanation.
But instead, it was FitzSimmons who spoke. “You are,” FitzSimmons said with studied casualness, “related to the earl of the same name?”
“My cousin.”
“Ah. Your brother wouldn’t happen to be Cecil Attebrook?”
For some reason the atmosphere at the head table had grown noticeably chiller, although Stephen could not understand why. “We have the fortune to have shared the same parents,” he said.
“How remarkable.”
“It usually is so with brothers. But that’s all we share.”
“You don’t get along?”
“He disinherited me.”
“Disinherited, are you,” FitzSimmons said with amusement that Stephen found nettling.
Before Stephen could respond, Bromptone said with studied casualness, “Aren’t you a crown officer? I heard something about you a few weeks ago.”
Stephen was glad Bromptone had brought the conversation back to earth. He had no idea why FitSimmons seemed so keen to needle him. He said, “I’ve taken service as Sir Geoffrey Randall’s deputy.”
“Right,” Bromptone drawled. “That’s it.” Again he and FitSimmons exchanged quick glances. “Your work hasn’t brought you this far north, has it? I hadn’t heard that anyone had died here. And we’re rather out of your jurisdiction here in Shropshire.”
“I’ve different business. Not crown business, actually. I regret that it isn’t more pleasant and that I have to trouble you with it. I’ve been requested to locate your son, Peter. There is, apparently, a matter of an unfinished apprentice contract.”
Oddly, Bromptone looked puzzled for a moment. Then he relaxed, but just a trifle. FitzSimmons leaned over his trencher, elbows on the table, and rested his chin in his hands. His expression was sharp, his smile small and nasty.
“And who made this request?” Bromptone asked.
“Anselin Baynard.”
“Oh,” Bromptone said. “Him. That bastard. If he wants Peter, let that piece of scum come here himself.”
Stephen was taken aback by Bromtpone’s venom. Peter’s imbroglio was a mere financial matter, after all, and eventually would be dealt with like one, which could easily mean a friendly settlement that allowed Peter to walk away from the contract. Stephen looked at his nails and said, “Who’s Peter’s surety — you?”
Bromptone didn’t speak, but his scowl answered for him.
Stephen went on: “You know what will happen if Peter’s not returned. Baynard could sue for the surety. Or he could demand indenture. Either way, you’ll have to hire lawyers. You’ll be out the surety and what you paid the lawyers. And if it’s indenture he wants . . .” Stephen shrugged. “A waste of money, paying lawyers.”
“Let him sue. He’ll never collect,” Bromptone sneered. “And he’ll never have my boy in indenture. He’ll be dead before that happens.” He and Fitzsimmons exchanged glances again.
“Where has Peter gone, by the way?”
“I’m damned if I’ll tell you,” Bromptone said.
Stephen wiped his mouth with his napkin and stood up. It was rude to go on eating after what had been said. “As I feared, I’ve brought you unpleasantness. I’ll go, then, and take my bad business with me, and leave you in peace. The lamb was excellent, and so was the soup. My compliments on your kitchen, Lord Bromptone. Madame Bromptone.”
He bowed, stepped over his bench, and strode quickly toward the front doors, trying hard not to limp.
Stephen was less than half a mile south of Ditton Priors when he heard the horses approaching from behind. At first he thought it was a post rider, although this was not a post road. He cocked an ear, and decided that, no, it was two horses, not just one. He turned behind to see what this was all about. Round the bend, the two horses and riders appeared at full gallop.
The riders drew their swords at the sight of him.
He recognized them. They were two of the five soldiers at his table at Bromptone House.
They were coming straight for him.
They meant to kill him.
Whatever for?
These thoughts raced through his mind as he sat paralyzed with surprise.
But then training and experience took over.
He gave the mare his heels and laid across her neck.
She was a good galloper, but the pursuers had the jump. The mare had barely gathered her hooves to run when they were beside him, one man on either flank.
Stephen sensed more than saw the flash of the swords as they descended, like a pair of scythes shearing wheat.
Another man would have been cut in half by those massive strokes, but Stephen knew a Moorish trick that could buy him just a few moments. He threw himself to the left, so that he hung from the mare’s side, an arm around her neck and his right leg hooking the cantle of his saddle.
One sword sang in the air above him. The other thudded into the cantle, nearly taking his leg off, and the sword stuck in the wood of the cantle. The soldier, a young man just out of boyhood, struggled to pull it free from the wood of the saddle.
Stephen grasped the soldier’s arm and let go of the mare.
His
weight pulled the soldier with him to the ground.
Because Stephen knew what was coming, he rolled with the impact, though it was stunning and knocked some of the wind out of him.
The soldier was caught by surprise, landed with a terrific thud, and didn’t move. The mare and the soldier’s now riderless horse raced up the road and disappeared around the next bend.
The soldier’s sword had come loose and lay a short distance away in the road. Stephen rose to fetch it, but the other soldier wheeled his horse and charged.
The other soldier came on, leaning forward and giving point. Stephen had seen this before. The point was a diversion. The death blow would be a back-handed cut with a twirl of the wrist.
To turn and run was certain death.
He drew his dagger from the small of his back and waited for his moment.
At the last instant, he threw himself across the horse’s path, out or reach of the sword. He rolled to his feet and stood up.
The soldier was already turning the horse again. He was an excellent rider and it was a well trained, responsive animal that knew its business. They had clearly performed as a team before in this kind of work.
Stephen edged toward the sword lying in the road. The older soldier didn’t try to charge this time. He urged his horse after Stephen and tried to hack him down from above.
Stephen dodged this way and that, hoping the soldier would over commit on a slash, which might allow him to close and wrestle. The soldier was too cautious and experienced to make that kind of mistake. Instead, he jostled Stephen gradually toward the edge of the road and the enclosing wood that bordered it. Who knew what obstacles lay back there? Stephen had had a friend who’d been killed during a duel when he’d back-peddled into a pile of manure and fallen.
As he stepped onto the verge of the road, he saw his moment.
When the soldier raised his sword for another cut, Stephen dashed forward and to his right, seizing the bridle. He ran so sharply and forcefully that his momentum caught the horse by surprise and pulled it off balance. The animal’s neck bent and turned. There was a moment’s hesitation when Stephen thought he had failed.
The horse toppled onto its side.
Stephen ran around to get at the soldier before he had a chance to stand as the horse regained its feet, leaving its rider on the ground. The soldier hacked at Stephen to keep him away and stood up.
He was between Stephen and the other sword. Heaving to catch his breath, Stephen debated again whether to run, but with his bad foot he doubted he could out run the soldier. The soldier smiled. It did nothing to make his features more attractive. His nose had been flattened and he had survived a horrible sword cut to his jaw that left his face looking caved in. He moved with deceptive smoothness. Some big men were slow, but Stephen was willing to bet he was quick on his feet. The soldier edged closer, sword at his ear in the guard of wrath. The soldier saw the dagger and was cautious. He must know that a man with a dagger presented some danger to him. But you could not fight a cautious swordsman with just a dagger.
Stephen turned and ran.
The soldier ran after him.
Stephen heard the pounding feet behind him and knew he was right: he couldn’t out run the soldier.
He pretended to stumble.
The soldier raised the sword high above his head. It hung there for what seemed a terribly long moment, then came its swishing descent at Stephen’s head — a blow that could part his skull to the collarbone like a melon.
Stephen stepped into and under the blow. He held the dagger in the high shield, with one hand near the tip of the blade and the other on the grip. The force of the blow on the dagger blade jolted his wrists as he deflected the cut to the side, then he stabbed the soldier in the throat. The point of the foot-long dagger blade penetrated effortlessly, as if into a pudding, and emerged from the back of the soldier’s neck at the base of his skull. The soldier looked startled and stuck out his tongue. The light in his eyes rapidly faded. He toppled over backward, dead before he hit the ground.
Stephen bent and wiped the dagger on the dead man’s coat.
He staggered over to see about the other soldier.
The fellow was still alive. His eyes fluttered open when Stephen patted his cheeks. Then the eyes focused on Stephen.
Stephen put his dagger point under the man’s chin. “Who put you up to this?” he demanded. “Bromptone? FitzSimmons?”
The soldier only grimaced.
Stephen was on the verge of losing his temper. He pricked hard. “Who! Why!”
“You bastard . . .” the man gasped in a barely audible voice. “ . . . rot in hell . . .”
The wind hissed out of the man. He didn’t breathe again. His face went waxy, a sight Stephen knew only too well.
Stephen stood up and sheathed the dagger. He ached all over from the fall. His bad foot throbbed so badly he could barely stand on it. His palms hurt from the impact of the sword.
The road was tranquil and still. The wind stirred the branches overhead. A robin flitted across the road into the bushes, a streak of red, white and brown. Other birds were singing. He heard the buzzing of a wasp. The golden greens and browns around him seemed brighter and more clear than normal. He took a deep breath and let it out. The air was sweet. He was still alive, when he had no right to be. He wondered why some who did not deserve to had to die, while the less deserving went on living.
Presently, he dragged the bodies into the woods and went looking for his horse.
Chapter 5
Gilbert smoothed the fabric of the shirt on the table top and leaned back to inspect the little rent and the crusted circle at arm’s length, not easy in the light of a single candle guttering on the table of the deserted hall.
“Can’t see as well as I used to,” he muttered. “Getting harder to write too.”
“Poor dear,” Edith said. “You’re getting old.”
“Not too old to give you a good romp, my dear,” Gilbert said.
“But not as often,” she said.
“Hush, woman. I’m as fit as any stallion.” Gilbert’s finger ran around the little slit. He poked a forefinger through it. “Seems we were remiss,” he said to Stephen.
“I was remiss.”
“Don’t be so hard on yourself.”
“I should have had him stripped.”
“It would have been unseemly there on the roadside. And there were women present.”
“Still . . .”
“Still nothing. Don’t blame yourself, I say. You’ve found it out. That’s all that matters.” He stroked his lower lip. “I’ll have to amend the report. We’ll have to interview this parish priest, and you’ll have to see the wound for yourself, I imagine. That’s proper form, regrettably. Don’t worry about the details. I’ll have the body disinterred. You can come round and view it when it’s done. Come now,” he said at the look on Stephen’s face. “He’ll only have been dead four days. It won’t be so bad. Just don’t eat first.”
“I’ll be sure not to.” Boot and sock off, Stephen rubbed his bad foot. Gilbert and Edith politely pretended not to notice the stump.
“Good lad.” Gilbert continued to stroke his lower lip. “What really concerns me is this attempt on your life. I’ve never heard of this FitzSimmons character, but I know a bit of this Bromptone. He went over to the barons earlier this year. Odd that Bromptone should want you killed over such a trivial thing as an apprentice’s contract.”
“But it wasn’t Bromptone’s men. I’m sure the two were Fitzsimmons’.”
“Perhaps this Fitzsimmons wanted to do his friend a favor.”
“A costly favor.”
“So it has turned out.” Gilbert’s eyes narrowed. “No, it couldn’t be the contract business. I know you say Bromptone was full of hatred for Baynard, but it’s got to be more than that to provoke murder.”
“What then?” Stephen asked. He put his boot back on.
Gilbert thought aloud. “The majority of this county are
for the king. But there are a sizeable minority who support the barons. And there have been incidents between the two factions. Not open war — a few beatings of the barons’ supporters, an odd fire, a killing or two of some prominent baron’s man, a man thrown into prison here and there. Since the king returned to power, his folk have been feeling their strength. It could be the barons’ people are planning something in reply, and there you show up, a king’s officer acting on Baynard’s behalf — one of the town’s loudest partisans for the king. Could be, they’re afraid you have your nose to the ground about whatever they’re cooking up. So right or not, they have marked you down. I’d say, you’d better watch your back from now on.”
“I’ll hire Harry as a bodyguard. He could use honest work.”
Gilbert changed subjects. “What did you do with those two fellows?”
“Pulled them into the forest, and sent their horses on their way.”
Edith regarded Stephen over the top of her ale tankard. “A coroner could lose his job leaving bodies lying around like that.”
“Not to mention his head,” Gilbert said. “But with luck, FitzSimmons and Bromptone won’t know you’re still alive for some days yet.”
“But he’ll wonder when his men don’t come back,” Edith said.
“That he will. That he will.”
“I wonder what they have planned,” Stephen said.
“At worst, it could be is another rising. Perhaps Montfort is planning to come back.”
“I’d like to meet this Montfort.”
Gilbert smiled thinly. “Don’t say that too loud round here. Even with the place empty someone’s bound to hear and report you. And don’t even think you’ll get away with sitting on the fence. There’s no patience with fence sitters these days.”
The next morning, Gilbert sent a boy from Ludford to let Stephen know it was time. He rode without eagerness across the Teme and up the slope to the parish church, which stood in a little square at the top of the rise. He rather expected Gilbert to have laid the body beside the grave. But no one was by the pile of freshly turned earth in the graveyard. The boy motioned him toward the church. “They’re in there, sir,” he said. “Waiting for you.”