by Jason Vail
“Oh, dear god,” Amicia said. “I can’t believe it.” Her voice was smooth and musical. Stephen felt the hair on his neck tingle at the sound of it.
“Baynard’s malice has no limit, ” Peter said.
“I’ll fetch father,” Amicia said. “He’ll put a stop to this.”
Peter waved off this offer. He eyed Stephen and the bailiffs. “I doubt he can do anything to deter these hard men. They have a proper writ, and there’s no way to avoid having to answer. It’s all good law. I’m done, at least for now. Pack me a bag. The gentleman says we’ll be riding directly.”
Amicia nodded with sudden resolution and disappeared in the rear of the house. Stephen realized he hadn’t taken his eyes off her since she had appeared. He must have gaped like a fool.
She returned within a quarter hour dressed in a traveling cloak and bearing two large satchels.
“What are you doing?” Peter asked in surprise.
“I’m going with you, of course.”
“Amicia —” Peter said.
“No,” she cut him off firmly. “I’ve made up my mind. I’ve written to father. He’ll see to our affairs while we’re gone and will send what aid he can.” She turned to Stephen. “Sir, what are you waiting for? We’re ready.”
Chapter 10
Stephen and the Bromptones reached Ludlow on the evening of the 23rd as the bells of St. Laurence could be heard ringing curfew from across the river. Stephen had hoped they would arrive before the gates had been shut for the night, but they were bolted tight. He did not look forward to a moldy straw mattress at one of the lesser inns along the street, even if he was lucky enough to find one. So he continued up to the gate, where he rapped on it with the pommel of his sword.
“Who goes there?” the warden called, his voice muffled by the heavy oak panels.
“Stephen Attebrook, deputy coroner. I’m tired, and I don’t want to be put to the expense of finding lodgings.”
A small portal at head level swung inward. The warden’s face appeared in the gap. “I’m not allowed to open the gates once curfew is rung,” he said. “You know that.”
Stephen slapped a half penny on the sill. “I won’t tell anyone.”
The warden regarded the half coin. “There’s three of you.” He squinted at Peter and Amicia. “I know him. He’s Baynard’s wayward apprentice. And she’s the doxie he ran off with.”
“Right,” Stephen said. “And he’s my prisoner. That means I have to pay toll for only two. Half a penny is more than enough.”
The warden’s tongue licked toothless gums. “All right,” he said as Stephen reached for the half penny.
Bolts clanked and thudded, and the gate swung open just enough for one horse at a time to slip through. The warden stood momentarily in the gap, an old man so stooped that he looked as though he might topple over at any moment. He wagged a finger Peter. “Ought not to be running away from your duties, young fellow.” The warden cackled. “You’ll be paying for it soon, I’ve no doubt.”
“I’m sure you’d like to come and watch the fun, you old fart,” Peter said sourly.
The warden glowered. “That’s just the sort of back talk that got you in trouble in the first place. You need to learn to control your tongue.”
“No reason to control it in front of you,” Peter shot back.
“If I was younger, I’d thrash you good.”
“But you’re not, so you won’t.”
The warden grinned slyly. “Perhaps I’ll have a word with my good friend Clement, then. He may speak to you for me.”
At this threat, Peter’s mouth tightened, and he said nothing.
Stephen grasped the rented horse’s bridle and led the party up Broad Street and out of further danger from the warden, who hooted insults at Bromptone’s back now that he had found a way to make the boy afraid.
“Horrible little man,” Amicia said.
“They’re all horrible,” Peter said. “The whole town. They hate people like us. Now that the king’s back in power, they think they can do anything to us they like.”
“Oh, Peter,” she said and clasped him more tightly around the waist. “I thought, I really thought we might be free.”
He patted her hands affectionately. “We’ll be free again soon. Don’t you worry about that.”
“But how soon?”
“I don’t know. But we’ll manage.”
“I know your father won’t help, but mine will. He’ll come.”
“Baynard’s price will be too high for him too, I’m afraid. We’ll endure, that’s what we’ll do.”
“I hope so.”
Baynard’s house lay on College Lane a hundred yards or so north of St. Laurence’s church, hard against the town wall. It was an unusual house for Ludlow in that the ground floor was made of gray stone, with black and white timber-and-plaster floors looming above another four stories to a peaked blue slate roof. Stephen dismounted at the front door and unlocked the chain holding Peter to the saddle, but did not unfetter his wrists.
Peter held up his hands, however, and said, “Come on, unfasten me. I’ll not run anywhere.”
One might think that, because he’d have to leave his wife behind if he ran, he would stay and take his medicine. But Stephen had known men who’d abandon their women in lesser circumstances. He still hesitated.
“Please,” Peter said. “Don’t take me in there ironed like a common criminal.”
Stephen understood the humiliation irons would cause. He fumbled for the key and unfastened Peter’s arms.
“Thank you,” Peter said. He rubbed his wrists where the irons had chaffed them.
Stephen lifted the big round iron door knocker and let it fall several times. Presently the door cracked open. Stephen had a glimpse of a slightly built man whose remaining gray hair had long strands combed over his bald dome. He was better dressed than an ordinary servant. “Who may I ask is calling?” the man inquired.
“Stephen Attebrook.”
The servant looked beyond Stephen to his companions. “Ah, young Bromptone. Good to see you again.”
“I can’t say I have the same pleasure, Muryet,” Peter said sourly.
Muryet ignored the venom. “Please come in.”
They followed Muryet into the house. The front part of the ground floor of the houses of most merchants held a shop, but this house was different. There was no shop here; Stephen understood that Baynard was so well to do that he held three houses in the town. One of them was his principle place of business, one he rented, and this one, his grandest, he lived in. The front door here opened into a small hallway flanked by a sitting room with a fireplace on the right. On the left was what appeared to be a coat room. Beyond the entryway, the hall proper opened up. It was a high-ceilinged room that rose in the center to the rafters, which were painted blue, with yellow stars. A massive stone fireplace dominated the far end and a slightly smaller one overlooked the right.
The family and servants were at supper, the tables arranged in the hall in the shape of a U. Baynard presided in the center before the main fireplace so he enjoyed its full effect. He laid his hands on each side of his trencher and glared at Peter with satisfaction.
“Peter, how good to see you,” Baynard said with mock warmth.
“I cannot say the same,” Peter said.
“Still not tamed, I see. Can’t you learn something from the fact you are here? Or are you too thick headed to take a lesson?”
“What would that lesson be?”
“That I am the master and I will be obeyed, and you will show proper obedience and respect while in my service.”
“And if not?”
“Then you will suffer for it. There is no avoiding either the lesson or the service.”
“I could run again.”
“You could. But next time I will sue for your surety. You may recall, it’s twenty pounds. Your father hasn’t twenty pounds to his name. He’d have to pledge the manor to pay the judgment. I’m sure your fa
mily won’t appreciate the fact you’ve made them homeless.”
“I’ll buy the contract.
“I won’t sell.”
“You just want to humiliate us, those who stand for justice and reason, and against tyranny!”
Baynard slammed his hand on the table. “I’ll not have treason spoken in my house, boy!” He twitched a finger in the air. “Fetch the switch. Words aren’t enough to penetrate his skull. He needs a lesson he will remember.”
A servant left the table and raced to the rear of the house. He returned with a long wooden rod, which he handed to Clement, who rose and swished the air viciously.
Peter went pale. Amicia grasped his arm. He squeezed her hand and stepped away from her.
“On your knees,” Baynard said. “Repent your words and speak your loyalty to the king.”
Peter didn’t move.
Clement came round the table and kicked Peter behind the knee. The blow collapsed his legs and he fell to hands and knees.
“Can’t you do anything to stop this?” Amicia implored Stephen.
Hardfaced, Stephen crossed his arms. He said, “It’s Baynard’s legal right to discipline his apprentices. I have no warrant to interfere.”
Amicia’s hands went to her face and she turned away as Clement raised the rod two-handed over his head.
“Give him ten,” Baynard said with savage satisfaction.
Stephen winced, remembering what it was like to receive ten lashes with such a rod.
Clement nodded. He brought the rod down hard on Peter’s back. Peter cried out. Clement struck him again. Peter shrieked and curled into a ball.
Clement spat with disgust. “Take your medicine like a man, boy.”
Eight more times the rod rose and fell. Peter whimpered at each blow. Clement counted each one, and when he reached ten, he raised his hand for another.
“Enough,” Baynard said.
Clement wiped sweat from his forehead. He seemed disappointed.
Baynard said, “Are you ready to accept Henry as your rightful king?”
Peter mumbled, “We’ve always accepted our lord as the rightful king. He’s just ill served and ill advised.”
“Give him another ten,” Baynard said.
“You’ve a right to discipline him, not kill him,” Stephen said suddenly.
Baynard stared at Stephen as if surprised he was still here. “What did you say?”
“I said, you’ve a right to beat him, not kill him.”
“I’ve a right to punish treason.”
“No, that right belongs to the sheriff and our lord’s justices. If you believe he is a traitor, then report him and let the law deal with him. But I think he’s had enough. And he’s acknowledged Henry as the rightful king. That isn’t treason.”
Baynard’s fingers played nervously with his table knife, a thunderous expression on his face. Evidently few dared to challenge Baynard. He appeared about to burst, but he managed to contain himself. With some effort, he turned back to his supper. He cut a slice of pork and chewed on it. Then he said, “Are you ready to behave now?”
Peter nodded.
“Clement, show Peter his room,” Baynard said. “Don’t let any harm come to him on the way. Our coroner here will be watchful.”
“Right, sir.” Clement took Peter by the arm and hauled him to his feet. “Try not to puke on the floor,” he said to Peter. “We’ve just cleaned it.”
Peter looked at him with pain-filled eyes.
Clement led him away.
Amicia tried to follow, but Stephen caught her by the arm and held her back. She shook him off with a glare.
In the quiet that followed Peter’s departure, the accountant Elyas emerged from the shadows behind him bearing a small leather purse. Elyas held it out to Stephen, who hesitated, feeling soiled and conscious of Amicia’s eyes. Then he put out his hand, and Elyas dropped the purse into his palm.
Baynard waved toward one of the tables. “You are welcome to stay for supper as well. But not the wench.”
“Your hospitality is poison,” Amicia said proudly. “I wouldn’t want it.”
Baynard said, “Go back to Gloucester, bitch.”
Face aflame with humiliation, Amicia wheeled about and marched toward the front door.
Stephen turned to follow her.
“You’ll not be staying?” Baynard asked Stephen without a trace of disappointment.
“I don’t think so. I’m tired and anxious to get home.”
“Thank you for your help,” Baynard said with a nod and false politeness
Amicia stood crying in the middle of the street. Stephen nearly put his arm around her, but the gesture would be unwelcome, so he just stood by feeling useless.
“Where will you go?” Stephen asked.
Amicia wiped her cheeks with her fingers. Her white face shone in the brilliant glow of a half moon. “I shall go see Mistress Wattepas. I shall convince her to take me in.” She faced him and added, “That is what I will do.”
Without waiting for his reply, she marched off toward High Street.
It was clear that she did not want his help, and he should have gone home. She didn’t need an escort in Ludlow, even after dark, for unlike larger towns there was not much crime once the curfew took hold.
But he followed slowly at a distance, guessing at the reception Amicia likely would receive at the Wattepas house.
He lingered at the corner for a long time, watching her dark figure glide in and out of moon shadows and then slip through the silvery band of light in the center of the deserted street. She reached the Wattepas house and merged with its dark shape. He heard the door knocker thud distantly. A flash of candlelight indicated the opening and closing of the door.
The mare nudged his shoulder and snickered to tell him she was hungry and wanted to be fed. “Just a moment longer, sweetheart,” he murmured to her.
But the moment stretched into two, then three, and then at least a quarter hour — so long that he was able to notice how the moon shadows had moved on the ground.
At last, the Wattepases’ front door opened and a slender figure emerged into the street.
She started when she saw him, as if she did not know who it was, but she relaxed, and said bitterly, “They will not have me back.”
Stephen nodded. “Runaway servants, like runaway apprentices, are rarely trusted again.”
“I didn’t mean to betray them!”
Stephen turned the horses toward Mill Street. “Come on. There’s a bed waiting for you at the Broken Shield.”
“I can’t pay. We had so little and I left it all with my father to keep the shop going.” She shuddered. “I’ll have to sleep on the street. People do it. I’ve seen them.”
“No, you won’t.”
Stephen turned toward home. At first, she didn’t follow. Then she hurried to catch up.
They walked in silence the rest of the way to the inn.
Stephen pushed open the door to the Broken Shield to find Edith, Gilbert, and a couple of the girls tidying up the hall, the unavoidable chore that put a cap on every working day. Edith was mopping behind the bar, Jennifer and another girl were wiping tables with wet rags, and Gilbert was harrying dust balls on the floor with a broom. The only remaining patrons, a half dozen men and a couple of girls, slouched in a corner over a backgammon game.
Edith was a demon on saving candles after dark as much as they could, so the only light came from a trio of low-burned candles placed at intervals about the hall. It was so dark in places that it was amazing Edith could find a lick of dirt, but somehow she always managed and never failed to point it out to Gilbert or the girl who’d missed it. In the morning the hall would appear spotless, its dark brown wood shiny.
Gilbert put up his broom with enthusiasm and bustled to greet them. “My boy, you’re home, and safe! You must be tired and hungry. Jennie, fetch some of the bean soup. I’m sure there’s some left —”
“Probably burned to the bottom of the pot
by now if it hasn’t been fed to the pigs,” Jennie muttered as she departed for the kitchen.
“— and bread — the white, not the black — you hear!” Gilbert went on. “Hurry now.” He conducted Stephen and Amicia over to a table and took a seat across from them. “Now, tell me your news. And you are?” he asked Amicia.
“Gilbert,” Stephen said, “may I present Mistress Amicia Bromptone.” He added further introductions for Edith, Sam the maid, and the absent Jennifer.
Gilbert’s forehead wrinkled with the effort of remembering. “Bromptone? Bromptone did you say?” His finger stood upright. “Not a relation to —”
“I believe you are thinking of my husband,” Amicia said with dignity that seemed odd in one so young. She couldn’t be more than seventeen.
“Peter Bromptone!” Gilbert finished. “I didn’t know he was married. How could he be married? He’s an apprentice.”
“He took it upon himself to change his situation,” Stephen said.
“Ah,” Gilbert said. “That explains why he left Baynard.”
“In part, perhaps,” Stephen said. He thought that Amicia might add something, but she just clasped her hands on the table top and looked into a corner. So he said, “It seems there’s bad blood between Baynard and the Bromptones.” Quickly he told the story of the altercation at the mill the day he left Ludlow.
“Yes,” Gilbert said slowly. “I heard about that. You’re lucky you weren’t killed. They could easily have come to blows.”
Jennie returned with a tray bearing two steaming bowls and sliced bread, which she placed in front of them. The stew did not smell or taste the least bit burnt, despite her misgivings. Stephen and Amicia dug in.
After a few spoonfuls, Stephen said, “Amicia needs a situation herself. The Wattepases won’t take her back.”
“Oh, dear,” Gilbert said. “I will have to think about that. Who would do? Indeed, who would do?”
Edith leaned on her mop. “We could use another girl,” she said.
“I don’t know.” Amicia sounded doubtful.
Stephen wondered about that too. It was one thing for girls from good merchant families to go into service — it was the main way they could earn doweries. It was another to become a tavern girl.