The Wayward Apprentice (A Stephen Attebrook mystery Book 1)

by Jason Vail

  “I hope so,” Stephen said.

  “We’ll use the dowry to buy the wagon and a team of horses.” Her eyes were full of dreams as she went on about a house, furniture, children, clothes, food.

  Stephen let her prattle on — dreams, after all, were often the only thing that sustained people — too appalled by the news of the justice's arrival to contemplate anything beyond the prospect of failure. He had no time now, no time at all.

  As supper concluded, most of the diners began to rise, and as the servants cleared the tables, a big, black-bearded man clad in a black coat and black hose — all about him was black except the white metal of his sword and dagger and the silver buttons on his coat — came in. The man spoke to Jennie at the door. She pointed Stephen out to him. The newcomer crossed the room, left hand resting on the pommel of his sword. Stephen watched him approach. He put a hand near his dagger and the other on the edge of the table to tip it toward the new arrival if he made trouble.

  The black-bearded man stopped by the place where Amicia had sat directly across from Stephen. “You’re Stephen Attebrook?”

  “At your service.”

  “My name is Gervase Haddon. I am a knight in service to Nigel Fitzsimmons. I am directed and required to say that he accepts your challenge and will meet you at the appointed time and place on Friday.”

  “Please tell Sir Nigel that his answer is welcome. I’ll see him then.”

  “I will most gladly, sir.” Haddon bowed and backed away a few steps, then wheeled as smartly as if he was at court, and marched out of the hall.

  “What was that about?” Pris asked.

  “A little nothing,” Stephen murmured. He couldn’t relax until Haddon had disappeared. He breathed deeply. “Well, we shall have to find a way to get word to Edgar that you’re safe now, won’t we?”

  Chapter 23

  The great hall of Ludlow castle had already filled almost to capacity when the prisoners were led in, chained at the neck. A pair of sheriff’s bailiffs in the lead, carrying staves, cut through the crowd like the prow of a ship, while the undersheriff bringing up the rear shouted for everyone, since people had begun to hoot abuse at the accused as if they had already been condemned and were on their way to their reward, to be silent or face ejection.

  As the prisoners neared Amicia, she, unlike others in the mass, did not give way until pressed aside by one of the bailiffs, and then she remained close enough to reach out for Peter’s hand.

  But a bailiff struck Peter on the wrist as he groped for her. He cried out and before he could make another attempt, they had moved beyond the crowd to the prisoners’ bar, which stood at an angle to the justice’s table. The bailiffs herded the prisoners behind the bar and took positions around them, as if there was some danger they either would bolt or lunge for the justice.

  Peter fingered his neck ring to relieve its chafing and his eyes wandered the crowd as he sought out Amicia, who had become lost in the press. His eyes paused on Stephen and their gazes locked, but Peter’s eyes fell away, all sign of hope crushed at Stephen’s stern expression, although it was meant to cover embarrassment and not condemnation or abandonment.

  Presently, the jurors filed in and took their seats around the table. There were only ten, though there should have been twelve. Stephen recognized most as knights and major landowners from the northern part of Herefordshire. There were also two burgesses from the town, Leofwine Wattepas, and the head of the tanner’s guild. A stooped clerk, who looked like he would barely make it to the table without collapsing, shuffled behind them with a writing box and a scroll of parchment. He sank onto a seat, wheezing with the exertion, and unloaded the contents of the box: several goose quills, a pen knife for sharpening the points, and a clay bottle of ink, which he laboriously set out before him with mathematical precision. When he was done, he called sharply for silence in an unexpectedly loud voice.

  There was a long pause, as if for dramatic effect. Then two loud knocks sounded on the door by the fireplace. A bailiff entered and stepped to one side. The justice of the eyre strode through the door. Stephen understood the dramatic pause then, because he recognized the justice.

  The clerk clapped his hands twice. The men around the table rose to their feet with a scraping of chairs. The clerk intoned in French, “Listen, listen! The court of the King’s Bench is now in session, the honorable Ademar de Valence presiding.”

  De Valence took his own seat beside the old clerk, and all the rest around the table settled with him. De Valance surveyed the room. He was an extraordinarily tall man who seemed to tower over people even when he sat down. His head, which hadn’t any hair to speak of now even though he couldn’t be much beyond forty, balanced on a stick of a neck. De Valance hid his equally skinny body in a voluminous and rich maroon robe that was trimmed with ermine. He was often seen absently massaging the trim as if to draw attention to the expensiveness of the garment. A massive gold chain that could have done service as an anchor line hung about his shoulders. His hands, a pair of crow’s claws, which now lay folded on one another, were well endowed with a stunning collection of jeweled rings. He was from a rich and powerful family and a cousin to King Henry, and everything about him seemed calculated to remind people of those facts.

  His black eyes had a hungry look as he ran them over the four men at the bar. Then they strayed to the assembly. They lingered on the lawyer James de Kerseye, drawing a little nod from that great head, which made de Kerseye blush slightly at the acknowledgment. The eyes halted for a moment on Stephen. Valence frowned.

  He said in court French, “Attebrook? You here? I thought you were out of the country, soldiering or some such thing, the law having proven to be beyond your modest talents. But evidently soldiering is too, apparently. Now Randall’s taken you under his wing. Odd.”

  “My good fortune, my lord.”

  “Yes, well, I just hope you don’t bollix up your duties as you seem to have done everything else you’ve tried.”

  “I shall try not to, sir.”

  “If your past performance is any guide, we cannot have too much hope for the future.”

  Valence returned to the men standing before the bar. “Two robbers, a thief and a murderer,” he said. “A motley crew. Let’s have the first case,” he barked.

  As the clerk called the case of the thief, Gilbert tugged Stephen’s sleeve. When Stephen bent down to hear what he had to say, Gilbert whispered, “Perhaps it would be better if I gave the indictment.”

  Stephen shook his head. “No, I’ll do it.”

  “I’ve done it before. He’s never shown me such venom.”

  Stephen patted Gilbert’s arm. “We all have to face the fire sometime. No sense running away from it now.”

  “What does he have against you, if I may ask?”

  “Years ago, he was my master.”

  “And you didn’t last.”

  “Unfortunately not. Lawyering just wasn’t for me.”

  “So . . . you broke the contract.”

  “Yes.”

  “To go soldiering?”

  “Well, actually I wanted to have my own manor, lord it over the peasants, be the gentleman in my local church, that sort of thing.” He paused. “Doesn’t look like there’s any possibility of that now.”

  “Funny,” Gilbert murmured, “I can’t see that of you.”

  While they had been talking, the jury disposed of the case of the thief. It had not taken long because he had been caught red-handed emerging from the hole he’d made in the wall of a house, clutching the stolen goods.

  “You shall hang by the neck,” Valence pronounced. “I commit you to the custody of the sheriff, who shall carry out the sentence forthwith.”

  Since this sentence was passed in French, it did not have an immediate effect on the wrong-doer or his family, who were in the audience. But when the clerk translated it for them, the wife howled and sank to her knees, the oldest son ranted, a daughter cried and turned away, and the defendant himself r
attled his chains to such a degree that one of the bailiffs had to hit him over the head to quiet him down.

  Valence coldly chided the head bailiff in English, “I insist on better order in the court.” He raised his voice to the crowd, still in English, “The next person who creates such a disturbance will be flogged and ejected! Is that clear?”

  It was very clear and he got immediate silence, alleviated only by the rustling, coughs and sneezes that always attend even the best behaved crowds.

  The cases of the robbers took slightly more time. A pair of brothers, they preyed on travelers on the road to Richards Castle. Victims had come to appeal against them and to testify, and they were quickly condemned too. The brothers accepted their sentence, when it was translated for them, in surly silence.

  “Who’d have thought that northern Herefordshire was such a hotbed of crime,” Valence said in English so the local people would not miss his contempt for them. “And now to the murderer.” He spoke with more relish than he had about the other cases.

  “There is an indictment in this case, I believe,” Valence said, gazing over the heads of the crowd at the far wall. “Let’s hear it.”

  Stephen sighed and stepped forward. There was a prescribed way of making the indictment. He had been coached by Gilbert on exactly what to say. Deviation from the prescribed form, as in many legal things, was not only frowned upon as unprofessional, but in some cases could result in nullification of the claim. He hoped his nervousness did not show. Valence would pounce on the smallest deviation from the prescribed form, which had to be delivered in court French. He began, “The accused is Peter Bromptone, of Ditton Priors. The circumstances, as found by the jury after inquest, as these.” Valence nodded impatiently, as if hearing the indictment was a formality he could do without. Stephen forced himself not to rush, and related the conclusion of the coroner’s jury in the formal manner required of him.

  When Stephen had finished, Valence nodded curtly in dismissal.

  Stephen smarted even from that little snub, sank back into the protection of the audience and whispered to Gilbert, “Did I get it right?”

  “You were fine.” Gilbert patted his arm.

  Valence swung toward Peter. “How do you answer? Guilty or no?” He spoke again in English on the correct assumption that Peter had no French.

  Peter looked startled for a moment, as if he had no idea that the charge against him had just been delivered. “Not guilty!” he blurted. “I didn’t do it! I swear —”

  “Silence!” Valence thundered. “You are called on to plead, not to explain yourself!”

  “Sir, with all due respect —”

  “Silence him!” Valence ordered the bailiff.

  The bailiff clouted Peter on the head with his staff. Peter sank to his knees under the blow, dragging the others down with him. One of the robbers at Peter’s side cuffed him as well.

  “You will not speak again until I give you leave,” Valence said. “Or you shall have another.”

  Valence then said to the jurors, “Have the gentlemen of the jury made inquiry into the facts of this case?”

  The jury foreman, a knight from Richard’s Castle, said, “We have.”

  “And what have you learned?” Valence asked.

  There were no surprises in the foreman’s testimony. He told the story of the murder as recounted at the coroner’s inquest without any significant deviation.

  “And how do you know these things?” Valence asked. The question was a formal one, which he was required to ask at trial.

  “From the witness of the Mistress Bartelot, who saw these events with her own eyes, and from the shoemaker Alric, who has a shop at the place where Master Baynard died — practically on his doorstep.”

  Although it was the job of the jury to inquire into the facts, just as it was at the coroner’s inquest, witnesses could be called. Stephen saw that Mistress Bartelot was in the audience, as was Alric and his mother. He had hoped they would come. Last night, he had asked them, but he wasn’t sure they would appear. What they might add was Peter’s only hope now. This was Peter’s opportunity to speak up. Gilbert had coached him in the night about what to do when and if the time came. But he lolled semi-conscious from the blow to the head, blood running down his forehead from a nasty cut on the brow. Unless he spoke out, his last chance would be lost.

  “The question, your honor,” Stephen said, “put the question to the witnesses.”

  Valence drummed his thin fingers on the table. “You are out of order, Attebrook.”

  “Sir Stephen, your honor,” the jury foreman said. “It is proper to address him as a knight.” The knightly class, for all they might be enemies of each other, endeavored to ensure that the non-knightly class treated them correctly. Valence, despite his family relationships and his power, did not enjoy the position of knighthood, a common lack in bureaucrats these days.

  “A knight, you say? He’s a knight? I hadn’t known,” Valence drolled with false ignorance. Of course he’d known. “My sincere apologies, Sir Stephen. But it remains, you are out of order — unless you are Bromptone’s attorney. But you can’t be. You aren’t admitted to the bar. And we forget one small procedural point: he has no right to an attorney to speak for him against the crown. As you should well know from your little time with me.”

  “But he is allowed to speak for himself,” Stephen said, “and to question witnesses — who are here among us.”

  Stephen was correct on this point and the jury knew it. The jurymen gazed expectantly at Valence, waiting for his ruling. Valence knew he was trapped. He asked Peter, “Do you care to question the witnesses?”

  Peter was struggling to his feet. The condemned men on each side helped him up, only because doing so relieved the strain on their own necks. Peter seemed dazed. His eyes were glassy and he swayed.

  “What?” Peter said.

  “Good,” Valence said. “I see not.” To the jury, he asked, “Have you reached a verdict then?”

  Stephen was appalled that Peter’s chance had eluded him. Then he thought of one last desperate thing to do. He said, “He is allowed to ask to be judged by the ordeal.”

  Valence could barely contain his fury, but only those well familiar with Valence could tell he was angry. His voice often dropped low when his temper was high, and it was so low as almost to be inaudible. He said with in a silky, viperous tone, “You are out of order. Do not let me remind you again not to speak up without the court’s leave, or I shall find you in contempt.” There was a pause, and Valence added in a louder, more brisk voice, “There is no need for the ordeal. The evidence of guilt is clear.”

  By law and custom, an accused had the right to call for the ordeal to prove his innocence, but that practice was falling out of use. Valence was within his power to dismiss the call if he judged the evidence of guilt to be strong.

  Valence again asked the jury, “Have you reached a verdict?”

  Heads nodded around the table.

  “What say you — guilty or not?”

  “Guilty,” all the jurymen said in chorus.

  Valence relaxed. He smiled. “Then in the name of the king, I adjudge you guilty. You shall be hanged for your crime, with the others.” He added brusquely, “The condemned are remitted to the custody of the sheriff, who may carry out the sentence at his soonest convenience.”

  There was a shriek from behind Stephen. He turned to see Amicia fall to her knees.

  Valence rose and the jury rose with him.

  “This court is adjourned,” Valence said.

  With a sweep of his cloak, he sailed out of the hall.

  Chapter 24

  As Friday morning dawned, Stephen sat on the edge of the bed, gray disquiet upon his mind. The feeling was as much an old friend as the battle frenzy, a nagging shroud of doubt that was full of questions: Will I fight well? Will I run away? Will I die?

  He rose and threw open the shutters, breathing deeply, seeking calm. The air smelled of cooking fires. Dew lay
on the windowsill and dampened his hands, which shook so that droplets fell from them. He watched the drops make the long fall to the ground. It was always this way before a fight, the doubt and the shaking. Once things got started, he would forget them. But knowing that did nothing to cast them away.

  He washed quickly, his thoughts turning to Peter. The boy was to be hanged at midday, right after the conclusion of St. Michael’s feast. Stephen wondered what it would be like to have the noose put round his neck and his feet to dangle in space and to slowly choke and swing. He had seen more than a few hangings; you couldn’t avoid them. But he’d never thought until now what it would be like. Poor Peter.

  After he poured the old water out the window, he got dressed. This was no ordinary day, and ordinary clothes would not do. By the door, he searched for and found the leather bag containing his mail. He untied the bag and carried the mail shirt and leggings to the window, where he draped them across the sill. He inspected the thousands of interwoven links carefully for rust. Mail rusted easily and had to be constantly tended, or it would lose its proper white appearance that could dazzle in the sun.

  Before the armor came the padding, a thick set of linen under-garments. Stephen started by slipping into padded leggings, which he tied to his belt. After that he slipped on the mail leggings. They were like metal stockings and had mail cover for the foot with a leather sole on the bottom like shoes. Taresa had had the mail foot repaired after his own foot was cut off in the hope he would return to soldiering after he recovered. But without the foot he couldn’t stay on a horse well enough in a close fight. Then she had died and the heart went out of him. With her gone, with his foot gone, he’d lost hope in the possibility of possessing anything in the future beyond the charity of better men.