[Stephen Attebrook 10] - The Corpse at Windsor Bridge

by Jason Vail

  The Corpse at Windsor Bridge

  Jason Vail

  THE CORPSE AT WINDSOR BRIDGE

  Copyright 2020, by Jason Vail

  All rights reserved, including the right to reproduce this book or portions thereof in any form.

  A Hawk Publishing book.

  Cover design and map by Ashley Barber.

  ISBN: 9798647688095

  Hawk Publishing

  Tallahassee, FL 32312

  Also by Jason Vail

  The Outlaws

  Stephen Attebrook Mysteries

  The Wayward Apprentice

  Baynard’s List

  The Dreadful Penance

  The Girl in the Ice

  Saint Milburgha’s Bones

  Bad Money

  The Bear Wagon

  Murder at Broadstowe Manor

  The Burned Man

  Lone Star Rising Stories

  Lone Star Rising: Voyage of the Wasp

  Lone Star Rising: T.S. Wasp and the Heart of Texas

  Viking Tales

  Snorri’s Gold

  Saga of the Lost Ship

  Martial Arts

  Medieval and Renaissance Dagger Combat

  The Corpse at Windsor Bridge

  December 1263

  to

  January 1264

  Chapter 1

  Stephen Attebrook heard the shouts about a dead man as he neared the northern entrance to the bridge over the River Thames leading to Windsor and its famous castle on the high ridge above the water.

  “It’s just ahead of you!” shouted one of the bridge toll-takers, who had also been alerted by the calls from the river. He climbed on the railing and was waving to someone in a boat beneath him.

  Stephen edged his mare to the railing. Dead men in rivers were not things you happened across every day. When he was a coroner, this would have been a matter of professional concern. But he had put aside that life for a better and more pleasant one. Or so he kept telling himself. Despite a sense of reluctance tinged with revulsion, however, the worm of curiosity niggled. Just a look, he said to himself. I’ll take just one small look to see what’s what. Then I’ll ride on and not think about the sad matter again.

  The wooden bridge arched upward to its apex at the middle of the river, and as Stephen reached the top, his perch on horseback enabled a view over the railing, where upriver a flat-bottomed boat was putting away from the southern bank. A boy stood in the bow of the boat, pointing toward the water ahead of him, while a man rowed following his direction.

  “I see him!” the boy exclaimed. “He’s there! I told you! It’s not just some rubbish!”

  “Damn it, boy!” the rower shouted back. “I never said it was rubbish! That was your mother!”

  Stephen spotted the object in question, a pale dome lapped by wavelets with a crow perched upon it that took wing as the boat came near.

  The boy grasped a handful of dark collar and lifted the object, clearly now a body, the head tonsured, as far out of the water as the shoulders before the effort became too much for him, and the corpse sank back into the river.

  Stephen had seen drowned people before floating in rivers and there was something odd about this one. Normally, they floated with their limbs outstretched. But the arms of this corpse had been pinned to its sides, nor were the legs visible. But it was not his business, so he thrust such thoughts from his mind, as Gilbert Wistwode clumped up on his mule.

  “Dear God, I’ve never been so happy to see anything in my life!” gasped Gilbert, referring to the castle and not the body, as he had neither heard nor seen what was transpiring below.

  For his part, Stephen did not draw Gilbert’s attention to the tragedy of a drowned man. One more dead man who was not their concern did not warrant interfering with Gilbert’s peace of mind any more than his own.

  Gilbert, meanwhile, raised his sore bottom from the saddle of his trusty mule and gave it a rub. They had been riding for a good part of the day over bad, meandering roads taken to avoid lands held by the King’s enemies in the midlands.

  “Our work is done at last!” Gilbert sighed.

  “Not quite,” Stephen said.

  “What’s going on over there?” Gilbert asked, peering in the direction of the rowboat.

  “Nothing.”

  Stephen turned back to get a look at the herd of cattle that he had driven all the way across England from Ludlow for Lord Geoffrey Geneville to deliver to the King’s army. The two-hundred-forty-three head (this morning’s count) were stamping and huffing in the street of the village of Eatun behind him. The eight drovers and their dogs were having trouble keeping the herd together as the toll-takers dithered over Lord Geoffrey’s letter, which was supposed to free them from having to pay tolls, since Stephen was on the king’s business. One cow poked a head into the doorway of a shop, eliciting bellows of outrage from someone within it.

  “Best get them across before they go on a rampage and tear down the village,” Stephen said to Gilbert.

  “Are we clear to cross?” Stephen then called to the toll-taker who turned from the spectacle of the dead man to the more mundane business for which he was employed.

  “You letter is in order.” The toll-taker held out Stephen’s letter of safe conduct.

  Stephen waved at the drovers, paused at the north side of the bridge, and squeezed the mare to urge her forward. As the mare ambled down toward the south bank, he glanced up at the castle. It was one of the largest castles in England and reminded him of another in Wales, Cheapstowe, white, solemn and imposing. He chuckled at the name Cheapstowe. In the west country tongue that meant “marketplace,” an odd name for a castle.

  The drovers got the herd moving, their hoofs thundering on the planks of the bridge, which shook so that for a moment, Stephen felt almost certain it would burst apart and spill the herd into the river.

  Above the racket the herd made came the shouts of the drovers, the snap of their whips, and the barks of their dogs, which kept the herd shuffling onward and the odd cow from straying.

  Luckily, though, the bridge held firm and the herd made it across that one and a shorter one a bit further on spanning a millrace. The drover leading the procession passed by Stephen and Gilbert who managed to find a safe place to the side, the bell about the lead cow’s neck clanking at every swaying step. The drover needed no instruction where to go. He had done this before. The herd flowed around a sharp corner, where the road climbed to the top of the hill toward the castle gates and the paddock to receive the cattle.

  Stephen waited until the last of the herd had rounded the bend and the twenty mounted sergeants who brought up the rear crossed the bridge. He had been charged not only with delivering the cattle, but also these men, who had been sent to fulfill knight service for masters who preferred to remain at home. He counted to make sure they were all there, glad that he had not lost any of them — a thing he could not say for the cattle — and then started up the hill himself.

  The road turned right to ascend the hill and then bore left around the western walls of the castle. A party of horsemen was coming the other way, but they had paused against some shops, since the herd, as it usually did, had expanded to fill the width of the street, even spilling into the castle ditch so that one cow tumbled and fell to the bottom, dogs racing to bark at the cow’s heels as it lumbered up to join its fellows.

  The riders were all elegantly dressed, but one stood out from the others. Stephen recognized him as Prince Edward. Edward was a tall man on a grey stallion of at least sixteen hands. He wore a floppy purple hat embroidered with gold that set off the dark blond hair curling to his
shoulders. His grey eyes, the left eyelid sagging slightly, regarded the herd with disinterest. The expressions of some of those about him were impatient, however. Edward’s lips pursed as if caught up by some thought, and he rubbed his jutting cleft chin with a purple-gloved hand.

  Stephen ordered the men to the edge of the castle ditch out of the way of the prince’s party as the herd finally jostled up the hill and around the corner to the town market, which lay outside the western gate of the castle.

  The prince started down, the others following, one of them with a pair of hawks on his arm.

  Ordinarily, princes did not take notice of common people in the street, but the prince reigned up and surveyed Stephen and the mounted sergeants. His eyes returned to Stephen.

  “I know you,” Edward said. “Attebrook, isn’t it? From Ludlow.”

  “It is, your grace,” Stephen said. “I am surprised you remember.”

  Edward’s fingers tapped a thigh. “Come looking for a fight, have you?”

  “I suppose I have, sir.”

  Edward smiled slightly. “We’ll give you one before long, I think. If you’re up to it.” He made a vague wave with one hand, a reference to Stephen’s injury. Stephen had lost half his left foot in Spain, and those who knew of the infirmity, which seemed to be everyone in England, thought he could not ride a horse well enough to fight.

  “I don’t think I will have a problem, sir,” Stephen said.

  Edward urged his horse forward. “Glad to have you, Attebrook. We can use every man! Even if you have trouble staying in the saddle!” he added over his shoulder without looking back.

  Stephen broke away from the tail end of the herd and led the sergeants into the castle’s lower bailey. He had been told to deliver the men to a Drew de Barentin.

  The gate warden inspected the letter Geneville had given him and announced that said Sir Drew had his quarters in the tower on top of the great motte, although he had no idea if Sir Drew was there now; most likely not, since he was the constable and had many duties.

  “You’ll know him by his white hair and great age,” the gate warden said. “He must be eighty,” he added, shaking his head that a man could live so long. “Still got all his teeth, too.” The warden, satisfied that the pass was genuine and that Stephen and the men presented no threat, waved them through the gate. “You can wait inside just there. Venture no further.”

  “Thanks,” Stephen said.

  He eased himself down from the saddle once they were inside the castle, but not without provoking a painful twinge from his right ankle, which he had badly sprained over a month ago. While he could walk without the aid of crutches now, it still hurt.

  “Keep an eye on the men,” he said to Gilbert. Stephen glanced through the gate to the marketplace, where coming in he had spotted at least three taverns and two inns. He didn’t want them making a break for the taverns and getting drunk. If they caused trouble before the handover, he would be the one responsible for any damage they caused. “Don’t let any of them out of the castle.”

  “As if they’ll pay attention to what I say,” Gilbert muttered. He was a small round man with a small round head fringed with disorderly brown hair. A most unsoldierly looking fellow, the men had teased him about his lack of height and often likened him to a pudding or an ale barrel since they had departed from Ludlow.

  “You’re the man with the money,” Stephen said. “Threaten to dock their pay.” Gilbert was along on his venture as the company clerk. He had the men’s wages, the last allotment to be paid out when they were handed over to Sir Drew, and was charged with keeping accounts for Geoffrey Geneville, who wanted to be sure his money was properly spent on the men and on the fodder that had been ordered for the herd on the way.

  “You tell them,” Gilbert said. “You’re better at making threats than I am, ones they’ll believe anyway.”

  Stephen did not reply other than with a wave as he limped across the bailey to the other side of the castle, where what looked like a hall stood by the walled grounds of a church. If Sir Drew was anywhere in the lower bailey — a likely prospect since the king and prince were in residence in the upper bailey — it was likely to be in the hall. An old man like him had to be by the fire keeping his ancient bones warm, even if he was supposed to be a busy constable.

  Gilbert thrust his cold fingers under his cloak, which he pulled tighter around his shoulders, and stamped feet tingling with the chill. He regretted agreeing to come on this venture for the hundredth time even though he was being well paid for it; God knew, he and his wife needed the money with their inn doing poorly this season. And he liked getting out of the house and away from chores, but it was never long before he wished for the comforts of home, especially the products of his kitchen. The food on the road was always terrible and the fare at inns and taverns along the way was only slightly less so. Sleeping on the cold ground was never much of a treat either.

  Mindful of the need to keep an eye on the men, Gilbert counted them to make sure none had slipped away. Fortunately, they all were standing around or sitting on the ground to await developments, and none yet had made a break for the gate. Gilbert was relieved. He was not sure what he would do if any of them tried it. Grasp the malefactor about the leg and plead for him not to go, perhaps?

  One of the horses raised her tail, the sign of imminent defecation, which the man sitting on the ground beneath her rump failed to see, although a couple of the other men noticed it. But they said nothing, so that the manure cascaded down on the sitting man’s shoulders. He scrambled away to the raucous laughter of the others.

  The laughter died, however, when a red-haired, freckled knight pounded through the gate and reined up in front of Gilbert, sending him staggering backward to avoid a collision.

  Gilbert recognized the knight as one of those in Prince Edward’s entourage, who had passed them on the street, and he was nerving himself up to speak when the knight spat, “Where’s Attebrook?”

  Gilbert directed a wavering finger at the hall across the bailey. “The hall. He’s gone—”

  He had no chance to say more, for the knight whipped the horse’s head away and dug spurs into his sides. The horse leapt forward and galloped toward the hall, where the knight dismounted before the horse had even stopped. He ran through a small gate in the wall by the church, not the place Gilbert had indicated nor where he had seen Stephen disappear. Gilbert hoped the knight would not come back soon. He would be angry that he had been misdirected.

  “You all right?” one of the sergeants asked Gilbert.

  “I think so,” Gilbert said. At least his voice didn’t waver like his finger had done.

  “What’s that about, do you suppose?”

  “I have no idea,” Gilbert said. “But it can’t be good.”

  The building Stephen thought was the hall was no such thing. It held chambers for visitors. The hall proper was within the walls surrounding the church. Sir Drew was not in the actual hall, or at least there was no one there matching his description.

  Stephen asked a servant bringing in an armful of firewood if he had seen the man, but he hadn’t. He asked a few others, who had not laid eyes on the constable all day, and the best guess was that he was in the upper bailey or perhaps out at the army encampment on the flat ground to the east of the castle. Which meant he could be anywhere. Stephen’s ankle ached badly and he hated the possibility of having to tramp all over in search of Sir Drew.

  He was headed toward the door when it flew open and a tall, resplendently dressed man some years younger than Stephen, who could only be a rich knight or nobleman, strode in, clearly in a hurry.

  The man’s gaze fastened on Stephen as they took in his appearance. Beneath Stephen’s soiled brown traveling cloak could be seen a faded blue woolen coat, a yellow tunic that once had been bright but age and wear had diminished its hue to the color of piss (in Harry the carver’s discerning opinion), patched and mended green stockings, and battered old boots in need of replacement. T
he man frowned in obvious judgment as he pegged Stephen’s place on the ladder of society many rungs lower than his and not at all deserving of his meager title of “sir,” even if Edward had uttered it without hesitation.

  “Attebrook!” the man barked. “I am Gilbert de Clare, earl of Gloucester. Prince Edward requires your attendance!”

  “But I just saw him, sir,” Stephen said, trying not to sound alarmed at the fact the prince wanted to see him and that he had sent a Marcher earl, one of the most powerful men in the country, to fetch him. “On the road. He was on his way down to the river.”

  “Don’t stand there moving your mouth, man! We must hurry!”

  Chapter 2

  De Clare didn’t wait for Stephen’s response. He spun about and rushed out of the hall on long muscular legs.

  There was nothing Stephen could do but try to keep up with him.

  De Clare had already left the walled enclosure by the time Stephen hobbled to the gate, and was mounting a stallion.

  “What’s the matter with you?” de Clare demanded as he swung the stallion toward the castle gate.

  “Sprained my ankle,” Stephen said through gritted teeth.

  “Don’t let that slow you down,” de Clare said. “The prince doesn’t like excuses.” He trotted his horse toward the castle gate again without awaiting a reply.

  Despite his impatience, de Clare waited at the gate for Stephen to catch up and mount his mare.

  “What’s happening?” Gilbert asked.

  “I don’t know, but I have a suspicion,” Stephen said. “You best come with me.”

  “Oh, dear,” Gilbert stuttered, struggling to mount the mule, who had found a tuft of grass in an otherwise grassless bailey and who defied Gilbert’s efforts to drag him away from it.