The Wayward Apprentice (A Stephen Attebrook mystery Book 1)

by Jason Vail

  “Can’t pass up the best ale this side of the Teme,” Patrick said.

  “I reckon it isn’t the ale you’ve come for,” Johanna said. “It never was.”

  “It’s a good excuse. But if I told you I came just to look at you, you wouldn’t believe me.”

  Johanna smiled wanly. “You never give up, do you.”

  Patrick pushed out a lip. “You never get what you want if you do.”

  “It’s too late, Paddy.”

  “For us, maybe, but not for our young ones.”

  Johanna frowned. “That can’t happen.”

  “Come on, now, Jo. Don’t be so set in your mind. I’ve a proposition to make.”

  “There’s nothing you can offer that will change my mind.”

  “You could at least do me the courtesy of hearing me out. For old times’ sake.”

  “Those are long gone old times.”

  “Maybe so, but the memories ought to be worth something, don’t you think?”

  Johanna sighed. “All right. Pris, I think you better leave.”

  “Mamma!” Pris protested.

  “Go. Now!” Johanna said sharply.

  Pris had no choice but to retreat to the hallway between the two halves of the house. She thought she might linger there to hear what was going on, but her mother barked, “Keep going!” So Pris went into the other room, where she and her mother lived. She kept the door cracked in hopes she could hear what was said. But Patrick and Johanna talked too softly, perhaps anticipating her eavesdropping, for their words to be made out. Patrick’s soft, musical voice went on long and soothingly. Johanna answered with short, sharp bites that fell into the conversation like the strokes of an axe. The only thing Pris was sure of was, Patrick was making an offer for her hand on Edgar’s behalf. Johanna did not seem to find the offer persuasive. Their voices rose and fell, but even when Pris opened the door wide enough to stick her head out, she couldn’t tell what they were saying, except for once, when her mother burst out, “It’s out of my hands, you thick-headed fool!”

  In the midst of the discussion, Pris caught the unexpected sound of horses in the yard. Travelers! This was an excuse to come out, for the door had to be answered and the guests welcomed. She threw open the front door and found, to her astonishment, Ancelin Baynard standing under the eaves, with Clement behind him.

  “Master Baynard,” she said breathlessly, backing up so he could enter. She ducked her head in the gesture of submissiveness he liked and expected.

  “Good evening, girl,” Baynard said gruffly. He shucked his cloak into her waiting hands. Clement gave her his cloak, too, which she hung on pegs by the door.

  Hearing the heated voices in the tap room, Baynard asked, “Your mother giving someone a talking to?”

  “I’m not sure who’s giving a talking to to whom, your honor,” Pris said.

  Baynard looked surprised. “I’d like to see the man who can get the better of your mother.” He grinned and jabbed an elbow into Clement’s side. Clement scowled.

  They didn’t get the chance to enter the tap room because at that moment Johanna stalked into the hallway. “Ancelin!” she said, taken aback. “What are you doing here?”

  “On our way back from Hereford and got held up on the road. A thrown shoe. Have you anything for supper?”

  Johanna did not get the chance to answer. Patrick chose that moment to put come out. He was wiping his chin, as though he’d just spilled ale as he polished off the last of his cup.

  “You’ll not reconsider,” he demanded of Johanna.

  “No!” she said sharply. “Not now. Not ever.”

  Patrick took her by the arm. She shook him off.

  “Is this man bothering you, Johanna?” Baynard said.

  “No, he was just leaving.”

  “We’re not good enough for you, then,” Patrick said bitterly.

  “It’s over, Paddy. Now, go, before it starts to rain harder.”

  “Not good enough for what?” Baynard said.

  The fatal question hung in the air.

  Johanna’s eyes shifted back and forth, finally fixing on a spot on the floor. “He wants permission for his son to marry Pris.”

  Baynard looked Patrick up and down as if he was seeing Patrick for the first time, although they knew each other. Ludlow was too small a town for them to be strangers, and Patrick had carried Baynard’s goods before.

  Baynard said haughtily, “Most certainly not.”

  Patrick eyed him narrowly. “I don’t know what you got to say about it.”

  “I’ve got quite a lot to say actually,” Baynard said. “She’s my daughter.”

  A fly could have flown into Patrick’s open mouth. He looked at Johanna for confirmation. Her down-turned lips were a confession. Patrick said, “A bastard’s father who’s had nothing to do with his kin ought to have nothing to do with this.”

  Baynard’s face got beet red. He wasn’t used to being talked back to this way. He thundered, “No daughter of mine will marry the get of an Irish dog!”

  Patrick’s mouth worked. “That’s the way of it, then, is it?” He hawked and spat. The gob hit Baynard’s shoe. Patrick said, “I’d piss on it, too, but I don’t want to get dirty.” He turned and stalked out the back door.

  Baynard was in such a rage that he seemed to have lost the power to speak. Choking noises emerged from his throat instead of words. He stood there for a moment, clenching and unclenching his fists. Then he went out the back door, with Johanna not far behind. Clement paused to get himself a cup of ale, and then he too went into the backyard.

  The look on Johanna’s face was the only thing that kept Pris in the house. But she cracked the door and looked out with one eye. It was nearly dark as pitch there, but she could make out the four, Patrick retreating toward the direction of the latrine, Clement and Baynard standing together five or six steps away, with Johanna just outside the door only a pace from Pris. Baynard was still making choking noises. Clement seemed oddly unaffected by Baynard’s anger. Johanna looked at Pris and closed the door. Pris heard more shouting. Then it was quiet. She dared to crack the door again. She saw the glint of something metal, something long and thin, in Baynard’s hand. He was facing her mother. Rain fell on their heads; rain fell about them in a prickling shroud; and they just stood there, looking at each other. Pris realized the thing in Baynard’s hand was a dagger. He bent over and gathered folds of Johanna’s skirt and wiped the dagger on the linen fabric. Then he put the dagger into the sheath at the small of his back.

  Pris had the feeling that something terrible had just happened. She wasn’t sure what it was, but it had to be awful, horrible beyond words and measure. She shut the door and fled to her bed in the loft.

  Chapter 21

  “You knew he was your father,” Stephen said.

  Pris nodded. “Since I was a little girl. Momma made no secret of it, not that it meant anything. He never showed any interest in me, not even after his only son died last year of the pox. It was always ‘Master Baynard’ this and ‘Master Baynard’ that and bowing and curtseying in the few times he ever came around, as if I was a servant rather than a daughter.”

  “You know, Baynard mentioned you in his will.”

  “What did he do, leave me a spoon?”

  “No, he left you a dowery.”

  Pris’s hands flew to her mouth. “How much?” she asked cautiously.

  “Five pounds.”

  “I can’t believe that.” She turned away so he couldn’t see her face.

  Stephen wondered if there was anything more she might tell him. But before he had a chance to think of a question, a commotion at the church door interrupted his thoughts. Voices were raised. Hamo appeared in the door. A stocky figure shoved him violently out of the way and entered, followed by three other men.

  Pris whirled about, her eyes wide with alarm. “Clement!”

  Stephen thought fast. There was a small cupboard space at the rear of the altar. He stuffed Johanna’s b
lood-stained dress into the cupboard behind a large wooden chalice. “Can you climb out one of those windows?” he asked Pris. The windows in the apse were no lower than the height of his chin. She’s have to jump and pull herself up. But she nodded. “I’ll keep them busy. You tuck out the window and run to Edgar’s.” He owed her that much for the help she’d given him. Now he knew who had killed Patrick. It was a great load off his conscience.

  “Thanks!”

  Stephen advanced toward Clement, who wore a ferocious smile as he tapped a club against his left palm, and three companions. Like Clement they carried stout clubs.

  But it was not Clement who launched the first blow. Clement snarled at one of the others “Get him!” and hung back while the others attacked. As they advanced, Clement edged to the side. It looked as though Clement was planning to come at Stephen from the flank while he was engaged with the man in front.

  The only way to get out of this alive was to do the unexpected — immediately.

  Stephen lunged forward and punched the first attacker in the face before he had time to launch his blow. The punch caught him full in the nose. His head snapped back and he collapsed, clutching his face, as Stephen twisted the club from his hand. Stephen swung backhanded at the man beside him, clouting him under the ear and he dropped like an ox.

  Clement and the last man, having seen the fate of their friends, hung back, watching Stephen warily.

  Stephen fell into the fool’s ward, stick pointed toward the ground in front of him, and waited for an opening. He wasn’t so afraid of two as four, though he could not attack one without exposing himself to the other.

  But Clement didn’t attack. He glanced past Stephen, to the apse, where he must have seen Pris worm through one of the windows. Then Clement ran out the front door, leaving Stephen and the companion to gape at each other.

  Stephen had to stop Clement. He pointed the stick at the other man’s face and advanced, snarling, “Get out of the way.”

  The man raised his hands and stepped back.

  “Thank you so much,” Stephen said.

  He went out the door. Hamo and the two pupils stared at him, open mouthed.

  Stephen said, “Where did he go?”

  Hamo pointed to the right, toward the bridge to Ludlow.

  Stephen’s horse wasn’t where he’d left her. He around looked frantically and spotted her at the other end of the church graveyard, where she grazed among the headstones. He vaulted into the saddle and gave her his heels. She took off like an arrow, leaping the stone fence that demarked the churchyard with an easy bound, Stephen clutching the saddle pommel in fear he would fall off, for he hadn’t taken a jump since he’d lost his foot. The mare seemed to know where he wanted her to go, for he needed hardly more than a twitch of the rein and poke of the heel to change her lead and wheel her right, and then they were pounding down the hill toward the bridge.

  For a big man, Clement was awfully fast. Pris had just reached the bridge, and though she was running hard, hair and skirts streaming, he was closing the distance. Stephen wasn’t sure he could reach the girl before Clement did. He leaned over the horse’s neck and urged her on.

  Clement and Pris mounted the bridge to its peak. Clement was nearly close enough to touch her as the mare reached the bottom and pounded up after them. Clement heard them, glanced behind, and put on an extra, desperate burst of speed.

  Stephen drew the sword from its saddle scabbard and pointed it at the center of Clement’s back, fumbling for the right stirrup with his toe so that when they collided he was less likely to fall off from the impact.

  Clement looked back again. He saw the point coming at him, eyes wide in disbelief as he apprehended that death was so near, then threw himself flat to avoid it. Stephen swept by and gathered Pris up with his sword arm. She screamed, but clutched him when she realized who it was.

  “That was close,” Stephen said.

  “God have mercy!” Pris cried.

  The mare slowed to a walk at the bottom of the bridge. Stephen looked back at Clement, who was leaning against the bridge wall at the peak, gasping for breath. Stephen turned the mare toward Broad Gate, ignoring the astonished look of the friar in an upper window of St. John’s Hospital.

  Switching the sword to his bridle hand, he swung Pris behind the saddle. Her arms tightened around his waist and her cheek pressed against his back. For a moment, he remembered other times like this with another woman. Before sadness could envelop him, he thrust the memories from his mind.

  “Edgar’s is that way,” she said, pointing to the right.

  “I know. But I don’t think you’ll be safe there. At least, not until you’re married. I’m taking you to the Broken Shield. Clement can’t get you there, I don’t think. We’ll send word to Edgar and he can come see you.”

  Stephen felt her nod.

  The warden at Broad Gate stood in the center of the gateway, barring the way with his bill, which normally spent its time leaning against a wall. He’d seen the chase, and his duty to keep the peace had roused him from his usual lethargy. But he shrank back to let Stephen pass as Stephen hadn’t scabbarded the sword, and the warden lacked the inclination to test Stephen’s temper. Stephen thought, the whole town will know about this before sundown.

  Harry was back at his place by the gate. “Good lord,” Harry said, “what was that about?”

  “Nothing,” Stephen said.

  “Nothing my ass. You steal her for the dowry? Didn’t think you were that hard up.”

  “Another lucky man has the dowry coming, not me.”

  “You stole her for somebody else?” Harry asked, incredulous.

  “No, she stole herself. I’m just giving her a ride.”

  With a wave, Stephen squeezed the mare with his heels. She began to trot up Broad Street.

  Chapter 22

  The Broken Shield was settling down to supper as Stephen escorted Pris downstairs, having temporarily settled her in a room. The serving girls were setting the places, the guests were drifting in, and craftsmen and families who either did not have kitchens or who had no inclination to cook trailed through the front door to mingle in buzzing groups before platters of food were brought in from the kitchen. Supper was a lighter meal than dinner, but it could be substantial nonetheless, for late-arriving travelers often were hungry. Tonight there was an unidentified fish soup, salted red herring in a mustard and lemon sauce, boiled leeks, and bread. Nobody much cared for salted herring, but as a public house, the Broken Shield could not afford to ignore the fast as many families did in the privacy of their homes and have meat, for as a Wednesday this was a fish day. Ludlow was far from the sea and often all that could be had on fish days was salted herring.

  Pris did not seem to mind the herring, and she dug into her bowl with relish.

  Amicia came in and settled on the bench across the table. She regarded Pris with curiosity. She was about to speak when Pris gasped and grabbed Stephen’s arm. Stephen followed her gaze to the doorway. Clement stood there, surveying the room. He caught sight of them. Stephen worried he would come in and prepared himself for a confrontation. But then Clement backed out and disappeared.

  “He’ll get me here too,” Pris wailed.

  “Get you here?” Amicia asked. “For what?”

  “I’ve run away to get married,” Pris said. “He wants to force me back.”

  Amicia’s eyes narrowed coldly and fixed on Stephen. “I had no idea . . .”

  “Not to me,” Stephen said.

  “He just helped me get away,” Pris cut in. She told the story of her flight in elaborate detail. She spoke at such length that Stephen worried that she’d say things about Baynard’s death that were better left unsaid at the moment. But perhaps her plan for future blackmail stayed her tongue on that subject, because she left out the part about Baynard and the interlude in the church. She added, “Stephen says I have a dowry coming, so I can afford to marry whomever I like.”

  Amicia was suddenly angry. She t
hrew down her napkin and stood up. “Spent your day rescuing tavern girls, did you? There isn’t much time left, you know. The justice will be in town tomorrow!” She stormed up stairs, nearly in tears.

  “What was that about?” Pris asked, taking another helping of herring. “Did I say something wrong?”

  “No.” Stephen said. “More ale? That fish makes you thirsty.”

  “It does that,” Pris said, holding up her cup. “Not a bad sauce, though. I wonder how they make it.”

  “Edith won’t reveal her secrets, I’m afraid, even under torture.” Stephen waved at Jennie, who had the ale pitcher. She came over and poured for them. Stephen said, “What’s this about the justice being here tomorrow? I thought he wasn’t supposed to arrive until next week.”

  “A couple of his clerks came in earlier this afternoon,” Jennie said, wiping up a little spill on the table. “Booked rooms for those who won’t be staying at the castle. Said the main party would be arriving tonight. Court’s to be Thursday now. A messenger came by earlier with a summons for you. He said he’d be back.”

  As Jennie turned away, Pris chattered lightly, “What’s so important about that to have you frowning so?”

  “That woman’s husband —“ Stephen pointed a thumb at the stairs “— will be tried for murder then.”

  “Oh. Who’d he kill?”

  “Baynard.”

  Pris’s mouth fell open. “He k-k-killed Master . . . my father?”

  “That’s what they say.”

  “Huh,” Pris grunted. Her mouth was hard and her eyes narrow. “Why was she upset with you?”

  “I was the coroner on the jury that indicted him,” Stephen dissembled. “I’ll have to testify at the trial.”

  “Oh,” she said and went back to her herring and mustard. Then she said with unexpected insight, “But you have doubts. Even though there was a witness.”

  “The witness didn’t actually see the killing.”

  “That’s true. But there can’t be much doubt, can there?”

  “No, not much,” Stephen conceded.

  “Well, then.” Pris lost interest in this line of conversation. She broke off a piece of bread to sop up the remaining mustard sauce in her bowl, and began to chatter about how Edgar planned to buy another wagon, a big one this time, and start a regular run between Ludlow and London. “There’s not much regular carriage business between them,” she said. “He’s sure to make plenty of money!”