by Jason Vail
“Any idea why?”
“God’s hangnails! I said the man didn’t speak to me.”
“Did he enjoy any feminine companionship?”
“Course he did. Those hussies can’t leave alone a man with coin.”
“Did Father Giles favor any of them?”
Johnnie sneered. “Adeline, of course. She’s the one reserved for the gentle lot.”
“The girl who just went up with de Clare?”
“That was Adeline. I wouldn’t mind an hour with her, but she wouldn’t give me the time of day. She might you, though, if you’re interested.”
“Perhaps when she is free.” Stephen rose. This time he was steady on his feet. “Tell me, did anyone ever find the pimps’ chest?”
Johnnie opened and closed his mouth in a good imitation of a fish’s. “You know, they did. It was in the church across the way. What’s your interest in all this? It don’t sound like a care for idle gossip.”
“I’m just curious.”
“Hmm,” Johnnie grunted. He collected the empty pitcher and cups, and disappeared into the pantry at the rear of the inn.
Stephen paused at the foot of the stairs. The thought crossed his mind to use this moment to question one of the girls. There was that saucy red-head, Jennet, whom he wouldn’t mind seeing again, even if it was only business.
But a fit, muscular man who had the hard look of a soldier stared at him from the top. One of the girl’s minders? Probably so. There was no seeing any of the women alone, and none was likely to speak truthfully with the minder present.
Stephen nodded. The man returned the nod. Stephen turned away.
Chapter 14
The baggage train filled the street as it plodded south away from the castle and the marketplace.
Stephen and Gilbert sheltered against the side of the Golden Swan because soldiers assigned to guard the train marched on either side of the wagons so that there was no room left for ordinary people to go about their business against the massive flow.
At a break in the procession, Stephen grabbed Gilbert’s collar and pulled him into the swarm.
“What are you doing?” Gilbert cried at being so roughly handled that he would have fallen if Stephen hadn’t held him up. “Where are we going?”
“Not to worry,” Stephen said as he pulled Gilbert along at a quick pace. “Not with them, for long anyway.”
“But where?” Gilbert gasped.
“Seems to me we should talk to that fellow Robbie.”
“What fellow Robbie? I don’t remember such a fellow.”
“We were given his name as the sergeant of the gate.”
“Oh, that Robbie. Of course, him. I was about to suggest as much since we appear to be at loose ends.”
“I accept your suggestion.”
“I wish you accepted all of them.”
“Except that you’re not always right.”
“I am so! Half the time, anyway. The important half.”
Stephen remembered that Robbie’s house was the last on the right in Morstreet. He stepped out of the procession at that house and stood at the edge of a weed-choked ditch, beyond which a field of winter rye had been planted, the sprouts frail and green.
A woman with a face lined from toil and exposure to the sun stood behind a wattle fence with two girls about seven or eight who were watching the baggage train as it passed by and drew out of sight on the road toward Stanes. A kettle steamed over a fire behind them. The woman took up a long-handled paddle and dipped it into the kettle.
“Come on, girls,” the woman said. “Fun’s over. Back to work. The laundry won’t do itself.”
As the girls reluctantly took up their paddles, Stephen said, “Excuse me, I’m looking for someone name of Robbie. He’s a sergeant-of-the-watch at the castle. I’m told he lives here.”
The woman ceased stirring the laundry. “Yea, that may be true. What do you want him for?” she asked suspiciously
“Just for a few questions,” Stephen said. “I’m not a bill collector or anything like that, if that’s what worries you.”
“So you say,” the woman said, holding her paddle as a weapon in case she needed to run Stephen off.
“I swear,” Stephen said. “I’ve just a few questions about his job and what he might have seen of Father Giles.”
The woman frowned. “The one who they found in the river?”
The girls’ eyes grew round at this suggestion that a matter of community significance such as the Father’s murder might have touched their household in some way.
“Back in a moment.” She leaned her paddle against a bench and went into the house.
She came out shortly with a balding man with grey hair, although he didn’t really look that old. A girl of twelve or so filled the doorway; she wore an apron that was spotted with burned marks from tending the fire: the household cook?
“My wife says you’ve questions about Father Giles,” Robbie said. “Don’t know that I can help you much.”
“I understand you were sergeant of the first night watch on the evening Father Giles disappeared,” Stephen said.
“Yea, that and the last watch.”
“You saw him leave through the barbican?”
“I did.”
“What time was it?’
“The sun had just gone down. A nearly quarter moon was high.”
“The light was good, then?”
“Good enough.”
“Did you see where he went after leaving the castle?”
“He went through the marketplace. This was a Saturday, mind, and there were a few vendors who hadn’t finished packing up. He stopped at a couple of them.”
“Did he buy anything?”
“No, he looked a bit at what was left. Then he walked on.”
“Did you see where he went after that?”
“Oh, sure. The church.”
“You’re sure about that? Didn’t the vendors in the market block the view?”
“I was at the top of Salisbury Tower.” At Stephen’s puzzled look, Robbie added, “It’s the one at the southwest corner of the lower bailey. I like to take the view from there after the watch is set.”
“Can you see the Golden Swan from the tower?”
“Oh, yes.”
“And he went into the church? Not into the Swan?”
“Well, he turned aside toward the church.”
“You can’t see the doors from the tower?”
“No, the houses in Draper’s Row are in the way.”
“Did you happen to see anything else of interest?”
“Nah.” Robbie frowned. “Except at the same time Father Giles went into the church, there were two fellows who came out of the Swan and crossed the street toward it. Couldn’t tell if they went in. Didn’t think anything of it at the time. Is it important?”
“Only time will tell. Did you happen to mention any of this to Sir Adam Rykelyng?”
“Never spoke to the man, or anyone else who isn’t part of my shift, about it.”
“So much for the thoroughness of Sir Adam’s investigation,” Gilbert murmured.
“What?” Robbie asked.
“Nothing,” Gilbert said. “It’s nothing. Just an idle thought. I have them all the time. So bothersome.”
The Golden Swan was serving dinner when Stephen and Gilbert returned. But it was not as crowded as they had seen it in the past, and most of those filling the tables looked like shopkeepers and craftsmen of the town rather than soldiers.
Stephen and Gilbert settled down at a table by the back wall and ordered a round of eel soup and fried cabbage with turnips and onions, washed down with weak ale.
The girls loitered near the stairway and did not make much of an effort to attract business. Now and then one or another showed some bosom or leg to one of the guests, accompanied by a bored expression. A few of the targets sauntered over and they and a girl climbed the stairs to the chambers above to take care of business. Many of the targets di
d not take long at it, but then, they were working men and had to get back to their shops, for the winter days were short. Dallying over dessert could mean missed business.
Stephen caught Jennet’s eye when she came back down. She beckoned with a shrug of her shoulder.
“I’ll be back in a little bit,” Stephen said, wiping his mouth on his napkin.
Gilbert glanced from Stephen to Jennet. He nodded and waved for more soup.
Jennet led Stephen by the hand to a chamber at the rear of the building overlooking a courtyard.
“My humble abode,” she said as she held the door for him to enter.
It was a typical inn chamber, a bed wide enough for two (or three in a pinch) without curtains. Stephen settled on the mattress, which crinkled and pricked his arse: filled with straw.
Jennet knelt before him and started to untie Stephen’s stockings. He grasped her hands and lifted her to sit beside him.
“What?” Jennet asked. “You fancy something other than the usual?”
“Something else, yes.”
She regarded him narrowed eyes. “I’ll not take it in the bung, nor submit to tying up or beating, if that’s your preference in amusement.”
“I have something else in mind.”
“Such as? A good cry on my shoulder and a pat on the head? Those are available, too.”
“I wouldn’t mind that. Maybe later. First, I have some questions.”
Jennet was quiet for a moment. “Like what — what’s my real name? How did I sink to this life of sin?”
“You can tell me your story some other time. I’m interested in a customer here. His name was Father Giles.”
Jennet paled at the mention of Giles’ name. She fumbled behind her for a bell that hung by a cord from the bedpost. She rang the bell and shouted, “Bill! I’ve got a problem!”
Feet thundered outside and the door burst open. A very large man stepped into the room, slapping a nasty looking club into one massive hand. It was the same fellow Stephen had seen earlier at the top of the stairs.
“Hello, Bill,” Stephen said. “How’re you doing?”
Bill did not reply. He grasped Stephen by the coat collar and lifted him off the bed to such a height that Stephen’s feet did not touch the floor. Stephen kicked at Bill’s groin, but this was a task Bill obviously had performed many times; he anticipated the kick and easily avoided it. He shook Stephen like a handful of rags.
“Careful, there, Bill,” Stephen said. “You might break something.”
Bill’s reply was to fling Stephen through the door. He collided with the far wall outside with an impact as bad as falling from the back of a galloping horse and slid to the floor. His shoulder hurt like the devil, but he did not think anything had broken.
Bill strode out of the chamber, his booted feet stamping on the floorboards so that the entire inn seemed to tremble. He reached for Stephen again.
Stephen held up a hand. “I’m finished, Bill. I’ll go. No need to rip my head off. Although I’m sure you’d enjoy it, there would be repercussions, you know.”
“Let him go, Bill. He’s connected,” Jennet said.
Bill stayed his hand, and Stephen climbed to his feet, his shoulder twanging.
“I’ll see myself out, thank you very much,” Stephen said.
When Stephen tottered down the stairs to the hall, he looked at the table he and Gilbert had occupied. But Gilbert was not there, and a servant was clearing away the trenchers, bowls and cups.
“Where’s the other fellow who was here?” Stephen asked the servant.
“Arrested,” the servant replied, loading the remains of Stephen’s dinner onto a wooden tray.
“What do you mean, arrested!?” Stephen said.
“That’s what I said. Three unpleasant fellows came in, saw him, and hauled him away. He didn’t pay up. Are you going to take care of that?” The servant held out his hand.
Stephen put money in the waiting palm. “Did they actually say Gilbert was under arrest?”
“That was his name? No, they didn’t, now that you mention it. They just saw him, spoke among themselves a moment, and dragged him off. I figured it was an arrest. Are they looking for you, too?”
“You have never looked upon a more law-abiding man,” Stephen said.
“You know, something makes me doubt that.”
Gilbert was lost. There was nothing Stephen could do for him. It was a bitter realization, but he couldn’t afford to linger on it. The men who had taken Gilbert could only have been FitzAllan retainers. As soon as they got Gilbert alone, they would pound Ida’s hiding place out of him. He had to get to Ida before Gilbert gave up her location. Otherwise, he would lose her, too.
Gilbert would give him time to get to her. He would hold out for a little while, then he would tell what he knew.
Stephen’s first impulse was to race up Morstreet. But more FitzAllan men could be wandering around there.
He turned from the inn’s front door and hurried toward the rear. He was aware of Philip Wyking and Richard Kilwardby following his progress, but he could no more spare a thought for them than he could for Gilbert.
He went past the kitchen, pantry and buttery and out the back door to the courtyard. There did not seem to be a break to a back garden, so he tried the door on a room at the back wing of the inn. It was not locked. He entered and found it deserted. He opened the window and climbed out.
There was no break for access to a back garden because the inn had no garden, just an indentation between the fenced gardens of its neighbors that sloped down to a field where sheep grazed on stubble. The sheep turned to face him in a line, waiting to see what Stephen would do.
“I come in peace,” Stephen cautioned as he slipped to the path behind the back gardens of the houses on Morstreet. He hoped there wasn’t a ram among them. It was not a pleasant experience to be knocked off your feet by a ram who was feeling protective.
He reached the path and passed along it without retaliation from the sheep and within moments was behind the houses along Peascod Street.
The houses ran down Peascod Street for about two-hundred yards or so before the town came to a halt. Stephen crossed the street where they ended and passed around behind those on the other side of the street. The ground was marshy here, a drainage ditch running down from the houses to a small pond, where several boys could be seen fishing from the bank.
Stephen stayed on course behind the houses until he found an alley that opened onto Newstreet, which ran down to the river where the ferryboats crossed.
He paused at the top of Newstreet, and scanned up and down Morstreet. There were people about, but no one he recognized, not that he was likely to know a FitzAllan face. He’d seen quite a few of them a while back when he was a prisoner at the earl’s castle at Clun, but that seemed long ago now and he couldn’t remember what any of them looked like.
There was nothing for it but to take the leap. So, he set off down the hill toward the bridge, half expecting voices to cry out in alarm at his back.
But he made the turn toward the bridge, where the chapel lay, without a challenge. Only a woman emerging from a bakehouse a short distance from the turn paid him any mind, for she smiled back at him when their eyes met as he went by.
He turned down the street that led to the hovels that made up the district of Underore and hurried beyond a large slaughterhouse to their barn, which was some distance away, but not far enough to insulate it entirely from the bad smells of the slaughterhouse, of cow manure, rot and decay, which mingled with the eyewatering reek of urine from its neighboring tanneries.
Despite the bad smells, Ida was on a bench by the barn where they had spent the night when Stephen stumbled up.
“What is it?” she asked in alarm.
“FitzAllan’s men have taken Gilbert,” Stephen panted. “We have to get away. They could be here any moment.”
“They will torture him?” Ida asked anxiously as they crossed the race of the town’s mill and t
urned to make their way along a narrow, churned up lane toward the bridge, she on Gilbert’s mule and Stephen on his mare.
“He’ll hold out for a time, long enough for me to get you away to somewhere safe, then he’ll confess what he knows,” Stephen said.
“Poor Gilbert! Was there nothing you could do for him?”
“Not and get you away.”
“I hate to think he must suffer for me.”
“I hate the thought, too, but it cannot be helped. He is a prisoner of his circumstances, as we are.”
They came onto the street at the head of the bridge. Ida paused the mule.
“That way,” Stephen said, pointing to the bridge, thinking she did not know where he intended to go. “Across the bridge.”
“And that way is to the castle.” Ida pointed toward the massive white fortification looming above them.
She pressed her heels to the mule and turned it toward the castle.
“What are you doing?” Stephen asked.
“I will not let that little man be tortured to protect me,” she said grimly.
They had no trouble getting into the castle, since the gate wardens knew Stephen at least by name. But Ida got odd looks since she was dressed like a common girl and riding a mule instead of walking.
When they reached the upper bailey, Ida turned aside to the courtyard of the king’s hall.
“FitzAllan will be in there, with Edward, I have no doubt,” Ida said as she dismounted. “He sticks to the prince like a flea does a rat.”
The hall was empty, except for a gathering of noblemen about Prince Edward at the other end by a great fireplace.
Ida marched across the hall. A couple of servants swerved to intercept her, since common girls were not allowed in the hall, much less to approach the royal person of Prince Edward. But Stephen fended them off.
Edward, who was bending over a large parchment map spread upon the table, looked up as they drew near.
“Attebrook, what are you doing here?” Edward asked, removing his finger from the map where he had been pointing to something of interest and murmuring things that should be done about it. “Have you something to report? Can’t it wait?”
