[Stephen Attebrook 10] - The Corpse at Windsor Bridge

by Jason Vail

  Stephen rested his hands on his chin, savoring the glow from the fire. For the moment, he pushed away thoughts of the problem of Giles’ death and what he had to do about it.

  The tavern door opened, admitting a blast of cold air and six burly men. Five were dressed in the red woolen coats and red hats of London bailiffs. The clubs in their hands reinforced that impression. One of their number, however, was one of the men Stephen had seen earlier in the Red Candle. The buzz of conversation died.

  They paused by the door and looked around. The man from the Red Candle pointed at Stephen and said, “That’s him.”

  Stephen rose as the bailiffs strode toward him. This clearly meant trouble, but he could not guess why.

  “How can I help you fellows?” Stephen asked.

  “You’re under arrest!” one of the bailiffs declared. He grasped Stephen’s arm, while another bailiff grabbed the other.

  “What for?” Stephen asked.

  “Spying.”

  “That’s absurd,” Stephen protested. “Who says so?”

  “I do!” spat the man from the Red Candle. “You offered us money to help you find out what the city plans to do to aid the barons!”

  “I did no such thing!” Stephen declared.

  The bailiffs jerked Stephen toward the door.

  “Wait!” Stephen said. “I have to pay the bill. You don’t want to stiff the keeper of this fine tavern, do you?”

  The bailiffs paused. Eyebrows rose at this unexpected request.

  “All right,” one of them said.

  “How much?” Stephen asked the servant who had brought their food.

  The servant named an amount. The bailiffs let go of Stephen so he could dig into his purse. Stephen counted out the cost, which he handed to the servant.

  Then he pushed the guard on his right, drove a shoulder into the one on his left, and ran for the door to the kitchen.

  Gilbert heard the yelling and clamor as he reached for the latch on the rear door to the tavern.

  Primal instinct made him dodge to the side, which saved him from being knocked over as the door burst open and Stephen ran out.

  Stephen tossed his purse in Gilbert’s direction and dashed across the yard toward the back wall, followed closely by five men in red coats and red hats.

  Gilbert had no idea why five men in red coats would be in pursuit of Stephen, but he suspected they represented local authority. And not wanting to be swept up as well for whatever bad thing they imagined had occurred, he edged behind the nearby woodpile and crouched down just as a sixth man came through the door — one of the brutes he had seen in the Red Candle.

  His heart pounded with fear, expecting to be found out and arrested, too. But the brute’s footstep crunched on the gravel walk as he put distance between himself and the tavern.

  Meanwhile, Gilbert heard the unmistakable thumps of clubs striking flesh, accompanied by shouts of “Stop resisting!” and assorted curses. He chanced a look around the woodpile. The five men were standing over something on the ground and raining blows upon it. That thing had to be Stephen: they had caught him before he could vault over the wall. As good as Stephen might be, no mortal man could take on five men at once.

  Shortly, the redcoats tired of the beating and hauled Stephen to his feet. Blood ran down Stephen’s forehead and there were red marks on his face that likely would turn blue with bruising after a time.

  Gilbert ducked down again, hardly daring to breathe, as the redcoats dragged Stephen back into the tavern.

  He waited for some time, taking deep breaths to calm himself, before he entered the kitchen at the rear of the tavern.

  A cook was shoveling coals out of the fire in order to fry swan necks in a skillet.

  “What was that about?” Gilbert asked the cook.

  “Some spy for the royalists they’ve arrested,” the cook said, heaping up the coals and not bothering to look around.

  “Where would they have taken such a criminal, I wonder,” Gilbert said.

  “The city gaol, where else?” Satisfied with his pyre, the cook placed a grill with legs over the coals and put the skillet on top. He turned around to grope for some butter for the skillet.

  “The city gaol,” Gilbert murmured. “Of course, how silly of me. Wouldn’t be the Tower, would it.”

  “Since the Tower’s in the king’s hands, that’s the last place they’d go.” The cook dropped a large smear of butter in the skillet and watched it melt. He frowned at Gilbert, puzzled at the questions.

  Gilbert felt the stare as if the eyes were daggers. Had he been too nosy? Had he said something that gave him away?

  “Well, I should be going,” Gilbert said. “Is there a back way out? I’ve been meeting a lady friend and I don’t want my wife to find out I’ve been here.”

  One side of the cook’s mouth turned up. “There’s a gate out back. Don’t leave it open.”

  Gilbert lingered in the doorway of a pottery shop down the street from the Brittany Inn. He pretended to be fascinated by the painted pitchers, mugs, jars and cups covering the counter and shelves beyond it, but his real attention was on the street and the people in it. He didn’t see any red-coated bailiffs, but he wasn’t taking any chances. He had no idea how the bailiffs had found them in that tavern, but that they had done so raised the possibility that the bailiffs knew of their lodgings as well and were lying in wait. If that was the case, though, he had not spotted any of them, or anyone who had his eye on the inn, either. He should have been heartened by the fact that across the street from the massive inn, which stretched almost all the way from Ludgate Street to Paternoster Street, was the high wall enclosing the west side of the cathedral close. That wall made it impossible to miss anyone lingering in the street for purposes of watching the inn.

  Still, he was afraid to walk in, and collect their horse, mule and belongings. What if bailiffs were waiting inside instead of in the street?

  The proprietor of the shop finished with a woman customer and turned to him. “Can I show you anything?” he asked.

  “Well, I, uh, I,” Gilbert stammered. “I, uh, wondered if there is a back way into the inn’s courtyard.”

  “For what purpose?” The proprietor stroked his black pointed beard.

  The question was posed with a measure of hostile suspicion, but Gilbert had a lie ready. “I have a lady friend waiting for me there. Unfortunately, my wife has found out about her, and may be waiting to surprise me in the hall.”

  “You — with a lady friend! Well, there’s no accounting for taste. You look harmless enough.”

  “Oh, I am quite harmless!” Gilbert exclaimed, realizing that the shopkeeper thought the lie he had offered could be a ploy for robbery.

  “Come on. I’ll show you the way.”

  The proprietor led Gilbert to the hall, where he called out, “Jane! I’ll be right back! Mind the store!”, and through the house to the rear garden, which backed on a narrow lane. As with all the land bordered by the city’s major streets, this lane rambled about through small hovels of one and two-stories, connecting with a maze of other similar lanes. At last, they emerged between a timber structure that resembled a barn — probably a storehouse of some kind — and a shed covering a massive woodpile.

  The proprietor beckoned at the open space beyond. “There you are.”

  “Thank you so much,” Gilbert said with relief.

  He expected the proprietor to turn away, but the man stuck out a hand. Gilbert stared at the hand until it struck him that the man wanted payment. Well, that was only fair. Gilbert dug into Stephen’s purse and laid a farthing on the palm. The hand remained where it was. Gilbert deposited another farthing, then another and finally a fourth. This satisfied the hand, which closed around the shards of silver coin. Gilbert made a mental note to put down in his account book the expenditure of one penny for miscellaneous expenses.

  “Good day to you,” the proprietor said and turned back to his shop.

  Gilbert remained where
he was, surveying the courtyard while he planned what to do next. Obviously, barging in might not be the right thing to do. It might, for instance, startle waiting bailiffs into action. He didn’t want that.

  All right, then. Gilbert slipped around behind the woodpile to the stable. It was a short dash to the stable door, but he forced himself to walk quickly rather than to run, as his feet insisted he do.

  Once safely inside, he listened for the sounds of someone raising the alarm, but all was quiet. This was a relief, but he wasn’t out of the dark woods yet.

  He saddled and tacked up Stephen’s mare and his obnoxious mule, but left them in their stalls for the time being.

  As he came out of the mule’s stall, he bumped into one of the boy grooms.

  “What you up to, sir?” the boy asked. Spotting the tacked-up horse and mule, he added, “Leaving? Or just going for a ride.”

  “Just going for a ride,” Gilbert said, trying to sound nonchalant. “Over Southwark way. It’s too long a walk for my friend. He has a bad foot, you see.”

  The boy nodded. He had seen Stephen limping when they came in last evening. “Right, sir. Well, if you need anything, just call out.” He pointed upwards. “I’ll be up there, in me chamber.”

  “Thanks. I will.” Gilbert could not restrain a smile at the boy’s reference to his attic space among the spare hay bales as a “chamber.”

  While the boy climbed the ladder to the attic, Gilbert again returned to examining the inn surrounding the courtyard. The inn buildings formed three sides of the yard. And they were three-stories tall, the intervals between the black-painted timbers white rather than light blue as they were facing the street. There was a porch running the length of each floor so that the doors to the chambers opened into the courtyard. Stephen and Gilbert’s chamber was at the bend at the far left by a stairway.

  Again, Gilbert spotted no suspicious characters in red coats, or in coats of any kind, for that matter. Well, there was nothing for it but to take the plunge.

  This time, however, he remembered to put up his hood so that if anyone looked out a window in the hall to the right, he would not be easily recognizable. He thought this plan quite clever.

  It was clever enough to see him safely across the yard, and before he knew it, he had climbed the stairway to the second floor. He put his key into the door lock, pushed the door open and peered in, wary of the possibility of red coats waiting inside. A pleasantly empty chamber greeted him.

  In haste now, he scooped up Stephen’s war gear, their satchels and saddlebags, and raced down the stairs.

  It was impossible for Gilbert to refrain from running to the stable. The urge to be away was as powerful as his need to breathe.

  He pulled the mule out of his stall, mounted him and took up the mare’s reins.

  Gilbert clicked his tongue and squeezed the mule’s sides with his calves. Ordinarily, nothing happened when Gilbert did this, and it was the same now. So, he gouged his heels into the mule’s sides and urged him forward with his seat. Often this had no effect as well, but today was different. The mule bolted out of the stable so abruptly that Gilbert’s grip on the mare’s reins nearly pulled him from the saddle, and badly strained his arm.

  The mule knew a way out when he saw it, and trotted energetically toward the passage to the street. There is no worse gait than a fast trot to jolt a rider, and the mule was giving it his best, perhaps as punishment for having been heeled so hard. Gilbert bounced about and clung to the cantle of his saddle, fearing a tumble at any moment.

  As the mule neared the passageway, five red-coated bailiffs emerged from the back door to the hall.

  “Hey, you!” one of them shouted. “Stop in the name of the law!”

  “I don’t know how!” Gilbert shouted as he dug in his heels to drive the mule into a canter. Oh, Lord, how he hated cantering — only a little less than he hated trotting. But it was the only thing he could think to do.

  Two bailiffs attempted to bar the passage, but dived out of the way to avoid being knocked over and trampled as the mule thundered through. One bailiff managed to secure a grip on Gilbert’s left leg and the tug pulled his foot from the stirrup. He had never ridden a horse or mule without both stirrups and the fact he’d just lost one filled Gilbert with terror. Yet he kicked his trapped foot free and kept going, fumbling unsuccessfully for the lost stirrup.

  The mule reached the street and, without any instruction from Gilbert, turned sharply left. Gilbert almost kept going straight, which would have flung him into the wall of the cathedral close, but by some unknown saint’s intercession, he remained in the saddle.

  He could not get the mule to slow down until they had entered Paternoster Street.

  Chapter 8

  The mule had turned right at the corner instead of left, and so had taken Gilbert deeper into the city.

  Once the mule tired of running, Gilbert was able to recover the lost stirrup. This gave him the confidence to check the mule and the mare for whether they had lost any of their possessions. Everything seemed to be there.

  The short winter day was ending, the sun about to sink behind the tops of the houses, so Gilbert gave some thought about shelter for the night. The prudent thing would be to get out of the city where angry bailiffs had no authority, and yet he could not leave. He had to do something about Stephen, although he had no idea what. Something would occur to him, though; he was sure of it. The unfortunate thing about that was, it would be dangerous, and possibly life-threatening. As much as he enjoyed Stephen’s company, a thing he could never admit out loud, of course, for some reason it always involve a high risk of death and great discomfort.

  He reached the end of the cathedral close, where Paternoster Street emptied into the broad expanse of Westchep, the location of the greatest of the London markets. There were inns aplenty along here, and he had enough coin to afford a bed for the night even if most of it wasn’t his and was supposed to be spent on things that benefited Lord Geoffrey de Geneville. But because the fact that an innkeeper would be forced to provide his name, even if it was a false one, to the ward alderman, he felt compelled to think of another plan. Being an inherently thrifty man in all things as long as it did not involve books, another idea occurred to him.

  He turned down a lane that ran south along the east side of the cathedral close. London was full of lanes that wandered about and often dead-ended (or so it had seemed behind the Brittany Inn), but this one ran relatively straight, so Gilbert followed it in hopes it found Thames Street.

  Shortly, the lane dead-ended where a big parish church occupied one corner of the intersection. The mouth of another street opened a brief distance away to the right. That one probably met Thames Street. But now that Gilbert was nearer Thames Street, he began having second and third thoughts about whether to take it. It would be easier to find his intended destination if he did, but Gathard’s men and the city’s bailiffs might find him more easily there, a prospect that filled him with dread.

  The cross street, however, was one of those west-east thoroughfares, so on impulse Gilbert decided to take that one. From the piles of rotting fish here and there and a litter of scales, the street looked like it held a fish market.

  At the corner where the fish market ended, Gilbert glanced down the street to the right, wondering if he dared cut down to Thames Street — and stopped dead.

  About fifty yards off, where the street bent to the left just beyond a church, was Maggie’s brothel.

  He urged the mule to turn down the street, but he refused to move.

  Gilbert dismounted, and pulled him by the bridle. The mule resisted at first, tossed his head and tried to bite him, but Gilbert persisted and eventually the miserable beast gave way and followed him.

  There were iron rings attached to the side of the brothel for tying off horses. Gilbert did so, but advanced no further into the house than the threshold because he was fearful of someone carrying off his and Stephen’s possessions, not to mention the animals themselves
.

  Gilbert opened the door and called, “Is Mistress Maggie here?”

  A woman who was short and fat and not a whore poked her head out a doorway on the other side of the entrance hall.

  “What do you want with her?” the woman demanded.

  “A word.”

  “What, are you a bill collector?” she demanded suspiciously. Then recognition dawned. “Oh, it’s you. One of the fellows who came with Ida.”

  “Yes, indeed, that would be me,” Gilbert said, wondering if he should be glad or alarmed at being recognized. Recognition often made you feel warm inside, but today the prospect rendered his innards rather chill. “The small, unimportant one.”

  “Don’t just stand there in the doorway,” the fat woman said. “You’re letting in the cold. Have you no idea what wood costs these days?” She drew Gilbert in by the sleeve.

  “Er, no,” Gilbert said. He resisted being drawn in but the fat woman was rather strong.

  “Well, it costs quite a lot. Now, wait here,” she said. She slammed the door shut, shot him a disapproving look for his ignorance, and lumbered up the stairs to the first floor.

  Presently, Maggie came down. “Ah, Master Wistwode. Come for some refreshment and diversion?”

  “Well, no,” Gilbert said. “I, uh, need a place to stay the night.”

  Maggie’s mouth turned down. “We are not an inn. You know that.”

  “Yes. But I’m rather reluctant to patronize one, you see. We’ve had a spot of trouble with a gang of fellows on Thames Street. They’ve kidnapped Sir Stephen and are after me, too, I’m afraid. They think there’s a ransom in it. They’ve sent men around the inns of the city asking after me.”

  Maggie snorted. “You’re not worth two farthings, but I image they’d think Sir Stephen is worth rather more.”

  “Will you help? Give me a place to hide for a day or two?”

  Maggie looked put out. But she said, “I suppose. But it will cost you.”