[Stephen Attebrook 10] - The Corpse at Windsor Bridge

by Jason Vail

  Stephen looked the men over. They had all come to their feet, aware that something out of the ordinary was transpiring.

  “Martin!” he called to the one generally taken to be the group’s leader. “No man is to leave this spot until you’ve seen Sir Drew and been entered into the muster rolls! Have someone find him right away.”

  “What about our wages?” Martin asked, glancing at Gilbert’s satchel, which contained all their money.

  “We’ll be back to pay you off,” Stephen said.

  De Clare went through the gate at a trot, picked up a canter on the bridge, pelted through the barbican, and turned right, passing out of view.

  Stephen urged the mare into a canter after him; the gate wardens at the main gate dodged against the stone walls. Those within the barbican, warned by this, ducked into doorways on either side of the passage.

  “Wait!” Gilbert cried, still struggling with the mule; he had one foot momentarily in a stirrup, but the mule shied away and he fell heavily.

  “You’ll find us at the bridge!” Stephen called over his shoulder as the mare thundered over the bridge and he turned right after de Clare who had already disappeared around the far tower of the castle.

  Stephen caught up with de Clare on the sloping road beneath the north wall of the castle shortly before the street turned toward the bridge.

  “How do you know we’re going to the bridge?” de Clare snarled as they pounded around the corner.

  “I saw a dead man being pulled from the river there when we crossed,” Stephen said. “Although I don’t know what interest the prince could have in such a thing.”

  “Ordinarily, he wouldn’t.” De Clare did not say anything more. His blue eyes were grim, thin lips pressed together.

  Eight horses stood riderless at the southern end of the bridge, held by a pair of squires.

  De Clare reined up by them and leaped off his horse. He clambered down the steep bank to the footpath just above the water, where the prince was kneeling by the dead man with the others of his party clustered about him, handkerchiefs over their mouths against a choking, familiar stench that made Stephen’s guts curl even from the street. The man and boy in the rowboat who had recovered the body were nearby, hats over their mouths, looking frightened.

  Edward stood up as de Clare reached him. His eyes went over de Clare’s shoulders to Stephen.

  Stephen limped slowly down the bank. It was rough going on his two bad feet, even though the descent was made easier for the ordinary person by the path that led downward from the street. He didn’t want to fall and embarrass himself any more than his mere presence would.

  “You sent for me, your grace?” Stephen asked as he halted before the prince.

  Edward nodded, but did not speak. There were tear tracks on his face and droplets caught on the tips of his day-old beard. He motioned behind him. The entourage stepped away so Stephen could see the body.

  “A friend,” Stephen said.

  “Yes,” Edward said.

  It was hard to see how anyone could recognize the man, which was not unusual for bodies that had been in the water for some time; Stephen had seen his share of them the past year. The dead man’s face was grotesquely swollen, a caricature of humanity, a gargoyle that had leaped off a church’s frieze to become rotting flesh: the eyes clamped shut, the cheeks impossibly puffy, the mouth round with protruding lips and tongue sticking out as if mocking those who dared to watch; the visible flesh sloughing off in places and bluish and mottled yellow at others in nauseating profusion. The body as well had swelled, pressing outward against a priest’s brown habit so that the fabric barely constrained the corruption, giving it the appearance of a fat belly lapping over a waist belt that the man had never displayed in life, likely to burst at the slightest touch.

  The man’s arms were tied to his belt on either side of the buckle with lengths of leather rope.

  The legs projecting from the skirt of the habit were equally swollen and bluish yellow, though down at the ankles they were a bright red.

  The feet were bound at the ankles with leather rope as well, one end dangling away.

  Stephen knelt by that rope. The dangling end had been cut with a knife.

  “He did not just fall in the river,” Stephen said.

  “No,” Edward said. “I believe he had some help.” He waved at the boatman and the boy. “Tell him what you found.”

  The boatman pointed at the rope about the corpse’s ankles and said through his hat, “There was a stone tied to his legs, sir.”

  “You cut it away, why?” Stephen asked.

  “We couldn’t get him in the boat otherwise.”

  Stephen rose as Gilbert stumbled down the bank and paused at the bottom, taking in the horrible scene. Intimidated by the assembly and the presence of the prince, Gilbert remained where he was.

  “What was his name?” Stephen asked. The thing at his feet, disgusting as it was, had been a person, and at least he should think of him by his name.

  “Giles de Twet,” Edward said. “I require that you find who killed him.”

  Stephen was so appalled at this order that his mind froze. The men in the entourage were speaking but the words were fuzzy and sounded as if they were far away. His mind focused on useless details: some way down the town wharf was a shack, little more than a lean-to; a good half dozen raggedly dressed children watched him, Edward and the dead man. Some of the children were laughing and pushing each other; others were grave, one or two had cloths over their noses and mouths against the stench.

  Stephen wanted to protest that he had had more than his fill of investigating mysterious deaths. His mouth moved to say something, but he stopped himself before any sound emerged.

  “You have some objection?” Edward asked coldly.

  “No, your grace,” Stephen mumbled. As much as he wanted to refuse, such a direct order from the prince had to be obeyed.

  “Good, then,” Edward said. He turned to go.

  Thoughts of what had to be done ran through Stephen’s head, one after the other. He had done this sort of thing often enough now that he merely had to repeat what had become something of a ritual, at least to get started.

  “I will need some place to examine Father Giles,” Stephen said. “Somewhere that prying eyes are not privy to.”

  “What for?” Edward asked, half turning back.

  Stephen could have used allusions and circumlocutions to make his point, but directness seemed a better course with Edward, who did not have much patience.

  “I need to cut off his clothes and examine every inch of him,” Stephen said.

  “What for?” Edward stammered, appalled at the idea.

  “To see what killed him.”

  “Isn’t that obvious?” one of the assembled noblemen cried. “He drowned!”

  “No, sir, it is not obvious,” Stephen said. “He was found in the river, but that doesn’t mean he was alive when he went in.”

  “I don’t see what difference that makes,” Gilbert de Clare spat.

  “It may mean he was killed elsewhere and then brought to the river,” Stephen said. “In that case there may be witnesses.”

  “They would have been found already,” de Clare said. “We turned the town upside down for more than a week after Giles disappeared.”

  “I still need to examine him,” Stephen said.

  “It is a desecration,” another of the nobles said. “Get him buried, and fast.” He waved a hand before his nose, which he scrunched up.

  “Yes, he needs burial, but not until I’m done,” Stephen said.

  He turned to Edward. What happened now was up to him.

  Edward’s expression relaxed a bit. He nodded. “I have heard about Sir Stephen’s methods. There’s a chapel up the street. Have Giles taken there.”

  He started off to the street, leaving Stephen by the body with a mind bubbling with questions. Stephen hurried after him and caught up at the steps.

  “My lord,” Stephen sai
d, restraining himself from laying a hand on Edward’s sleeve to keep him from getting away. “A final word.”

  Edward turned abruptly. “What?”

  “You said a search had been conducted for de Twet. Who was in charge of it?”

  “Why?”

  “Knowing what has already been done will save time and needless duplication of effort.”

  “Of course. Adam Rykelyng is his name.” As if Edward thought that was enough, his other foot went up two steps.

  “Where can he be found, my lord?” Stephen asked. “Is he among those men?” He indicated the others now right behind him at the foot of the stairs.

  “No,” Edward said. “His quarters are in the lower bailey. Is that all?”

  It was clear Edward was losing patience with Stephen’s questions, so Stephen said, “Yes, my lord. It is.”

  “Good. I am leaving for France with the king one week from today. I would like this matter cleared up by then.”

  “I’ll do my best, but I can’t promise results in so short a time.”

  “Why is it that when I ask for even a simple thing to be done all I hear from people is excuses?”

  Edward and the entourage climbed the stepped path to the street. They mounted their horses and rode back to the castle after the squires were ordered to find porters for the body and something to carry it on. The squires simply grabbed those nearby, a few shopkeepers and a couple of men walking over the bridge. Those who protested when they discovered why they were needed had their minds changed by being lashed with riding whips and through assorted kicks and punches.

  Father Giles had been a tall man in life and, allowing for the distortion done to his corpse by rot, a well-set up one, too, in the same leanly muscular way as Stephen himself. Gazing at the body, Stephen thought morosely that if he lay down beside it, Gilbert would note they were about the same height.

  This made for a rather large corpse, and no single board long and wide enough to serve could be found, and the squires were on the brink of tearing down the door to a glover’s shop by the bridge when some boys came forward with three narrow boards from a rear yard. The body was lifted upon these boards, one at the shoulders, the second at the waist and the third at the thighs.

  The porters gagged so violently that they tottered to and fro, placing their cargo in danger of pitching to the ground. The squires, mindful of this risk, shouted threats and encouragement to the porters, who were one on each end of a board, and they shuffled toward the rising ground by the bridge.

  Negotiating this rise brought further chances of tipping the body to the ground, but somehow, they struggled to the street and headed southward toward the castle.

  The chapel in question sat protected by a low stone fence where the street turned right and began its climb up castle hill.

  Three black-robed monks inhabited the place, and they peered from the window of their little house by the stone chapel. They had been warned what was coming and watched aghast as the sorry procession crossed the yard and invaded the chapel.

  The place was bare inside, except for a wooden altar at the back and behind it on the wall a painted crucifix of Our Lord, his blue robe lined with golden paint and golden fleur de lis on it.

  “Put him down over there,” Stephen said, pointed to a spot by a window which offered some light.

  The porters set the body down and, seeing their opportunity, rushed for the doorway before the squires could require anything more of them.

  “Will that be all, sir?” the eldest squire, who had taken charge of the others, asked.

  “You can go,” Stephen said. “Oh, did your instructions say anything about rounding up gravediggers?”

  “No, sir,” the squire said.

  “You might speak to the monks about that, if you would be so kind.”

  “Of course, sir.”

  “Can I go, too?” Gilbert said from the doorway as the squires hurried around him, as anxious to be gone as the townspeople had been.

  “You know you can’t.” Stephen knelt by the body and fumbled for his gloves. They were old calf skin but in good shape, and he hated to ruin them. But he wasn’t touching the dead man or his clothing with bare hands. He glanced at Gilbert. “Get a shroud from those monks. We’re going to need something to cover him when we’re done. And ask if they can spare a table.”

  Gilbert returned with a linen sheet and reported that the monks were unwilling to surrender a table, since they could guess what it was wanted for.

  “They didn’t want to give me the sheet, either,” Gilbert said, kneeling beside Stephen, his face screwed up in distaste at the stench. “They demanded money.”

  “What did you say?”

  “I told them this was Prince Edward’s dear friend, and if they wanted money to do him honor, then they would have to get it from him.”

  “Well played.”

  “I have my moments.”

  “You certainly do. Let this be one more of them. Let’s get on with it, then.” Stephen knelt by the body.

  Gilbert’s face tightened even more with distaste and horror. “Look at the time you’ve wasted while I’ve been running your errand! You could have had him out of his robe by now!”

  “You’re going to make a fuss about this, are you?” Stephen demanded indignantly. “It’s your turn.”

  “I examined the last one,” Gilbert said archly. “It’s your turn.” The last one had been an elderly lady who had fallen down a flight of stairs a week ago, when they had been summoned to look her over even though neither of them held an official position; for some reason people still acted as if Stephen still was a coroner. Perhaps it was because in the political confusion of the dispute between the barons under Simon de Montfort and the king, the replacement who had been appointed was a Montfort man based at Hereford, and Ludlow leaned toward the king’s party. That examination had not required the cutting off of her clothes. A glance at the great dent in the old woman’s forehead was enough to determine the cause of death.

  “This is hardly fair.”

  Gilbert looked stubborn.

  “All right,” Stephen relented, mainly because the quicker this business was done, the quicker the both of them could get away from the choking rot. “Be that way. Let’s have a look at his hands first.”

  Stephen bent over those hands, blue as stones. There were two rings on the right hand and one on the left pinkie. Two were silver and one, which held a stone the color of seawater in a harbor on a sunny day, was gold. Instead of being tied directly to the belt, the ropes securing each hand were fastened to the belt with a square knot. There was a short length of rope to the strands about the wrists, three or four inches or so, and knots securing the wrists were slip knots pulled fast so that the rope had sunk deeply into the swollen flesh. On the right wrist just above the rope was a thin gold bracelet. Stephen tried to free the slip knots but could not, so he cut the strands connecting the hands to the man’s belt.

  Now for the habit. He grasped the dead man’s collar and sawed through the fabric in the direction of his feet. He paused to undo the belt, squinting in expectation of an eruption, but none came and he finished, with some struggle.

  He lay the wings of the garment aside and looked at the body. The stomach was as taut and distended as a full wine skin, and had burst, the intestines dribbling through a hole in the side. The color of the skin was the same blue-and-yellow as the face. Removal of the man’s clothing revealed a delicate golden cross around his neck on a chain that also appeared to be gold, which he had worn underneath his habit.

  Stephen drew the chain around the dead man’s head. The object rested in his hand, too beautiful to be cast aside without examination. The chain was composed of small links so fragile and fine that they seemed beyond the capacity of a smith to fashion. The cross, the stem of which was no longer than his middle finger supporting a figure of Christ with arms outstretched, was equally delicate. The eyes, nose and mouth were finely rendered, as were the waves of the ha
ir falling to the figure’s shoulders and the curls of the beard. The fingers and toes were also carved, so impossibly small, and even the finger- and toenails had been etched in. The figure’s feet rested on a ruby that glowed dully red in the bad light of the chapel, but would burn bright in the daylight to dazzle the eye. The thing must have cost a fortune, tens of pounds at least. It was a remarkable thing to find on a dead man, and spoke to the fact that he must have come from a prominent and wealthy family.

  He set aside the bauble in the dirt, bent over and, holding his breath against the choking stench, looked closely at the man’s face, his lips, his ears, his neck. Then he worked his way down to the feet.

  “Nothing, eh?” Gilbert said, hands over his mouth and nose, not that did any good.

  Stephen shook his head.

  “No sign of smothering?” Gilbert asked, hovering a few steps away, his mouth muffled by the hem of his shirt. They had learned that someone who had been smothered often displayed little scarlet marks, like pinpricks, about the face and eyes.

  “Not that I can see.”

  “And no marks on the neck. So, he wasn’t strangled.”

  “No. I don’t see any bruises or wounds. Let’s get him turned over.”

  Gilbert hung back, and could not be coaxed to come forward with the dark looks Stephen shot in his direction. Stephen tugged and twisted the corpse’s shoulders to bring it around on its stomach.

  Gilbert still did not help as Stephen wormed Giles’ arms out of his sleeves and removed the habit, which he tossed aside.

  Gilbert fished the belt from the pile with the point of his knife and found a fat purse. He weighed it on his palm, bouncing a little so that the coins within it made a faint, musical sound.

  “It’s pretty heavy,” Gilbert said. He glanced at the gold cross lying nearby. “Doesn’t look like robbery.”

  “No,” Stephen agreed. “Whoever killed him wasn’t interested in theft. He was wearing enough gold.”

  “And there’s this.” Gilbert plucked up the belt with two fingers and held it out.