by Jason Vail
The only moment of excitement came when the road forked shortly after they left the bridge. The right fork went through Richard’s Castle and the left through Ashford Bowdler and Brimfield; both eventually wound up at Leominster, barring a wrong turn. Which road to take required a decision, which ignited some heated debate. Gilbert reckoned the right fork the shorter route, while Stephen reckoned the left was the safer one since it should take them farther from the army said to be encamped at Wigmore. Harry’s vote decided the matter. Although he was no more comfortable in the saddle than Gilbert, he was not enthusiastic about the prospect of having to gallop to safety if they met a band of marauders.
So, they did not arrive at Leominster until late in the day, a cold wind at their backs and tempers short from the discomfort.
“At least you don’t have toes to get frostbite,” Gilbert grumbled at Harry as they approached Leominster’s gate.
“Don’t worry,” Harry said. “It doesn’t hurt that much to have them off. You’ll hardly feel a thing.”
“Well, I can’t feel anything now, so I don’t suppose it will make much difference.”
“The ones I still have might fall off of their own accord,” Stephen said as he fumbled for the toll, which he handed down to one of the gate wardens.
The street running south from the gate was called Broad Street. Stephen led them down to the intersection with Bargate Street across from the entrance to the market. A decent inn stood on the corner, where Stephen planned to spend the night.
Harry had already loosened his straps by the time Stephen dismounted. He held out his arms to Stephen and growled, “No games. Make sure you catch me.”
“Harry,” Stephen, “I am wounded that you don’t trust me. Do you want to get down unaided?”
“No, I’ll take the chance. Anyway, it’s that lump I don’t trust. He’d just step out of the way.”
Gilbert, the lump in question, said, “It’s just what you deserve.”
But when Stephen stood fast to help Harry down, Harry said, “Wait! Wait! I’ve an idea.”
Harry slipped off the saddle, held the pommel only long enough to grasp a stirrup leather, and let himself down.
“Neat trick,” Stephen said.
“Of course, it is,” Harry said, heading toward the door to the inn.
Gilbert followed Harry into the inn, while Stephen led the horses and the mule through the passage to the stable at the back of the inn.
Gilbert and Harry had already been served by the time Stephen reached the hall and settled on a bench beside Gilbert, who pushed a bowl of pottage at him.
“It’s really not bad,” Gilbert said with a full mouth of something that required chewing.
“Not bad,” Stephen murmured, bending over the bowl. “You’d eat a horse turd and pronounce it not bad.”
“Only if it was a fresh one,” Gilbert said, swallowing and spooning up another mouthful of what appeared to be cabbage and peas. “Old ones tend to be rather dry and tasteless.”
Stephen stirred the contents of the bowl. Pottages tended to be a mishmash of everything available, which was simply tossed into a pot and left to simmer, often for days. This pottage smelled of beef broth, however, a hopeful sign, and contained carrots, barley, beans, peas and leeks so well done that they had fallen apart and were almost unidentifiable. Then, to Stephen’s joy, the spoon unearthed cubes of meat.
“Beef?” he asked.
“Lamb, I think,” Harry said, filling his mouth with the same enthusiasm as Gilbert. “Have some bread.”
As Stephen spooned the pottage, someone Stephen never hoped to see again descended the stairs — a man named Nigel FitzSimmons. He was a large, muscular man who favored a black coat with silver buttons. The coat and black stockings went well with his black hair and pointed beard and gave him a sinister appearance. FitzSimmons had tried to have Stephen killed several times, and Stephen had returned the favor by killing one of FitzSimmons’ cousins and knocking him off a horse.
FitzSimmons could not avoid seeing Stephen. He looked startled, but an expression of triumph and satisfaction crept across his face. He smiled, a cruel sneer. He swept by, a beautiful woman on his arm and trailed by a half dozen retainers, to take a place at a long table that apparently had been reserved for them.
The woman was another matter. Her eyes lingered on Stephen for a moment. One corner of her mouth turned up briefly, the only indication she knew him. Then she, too, found her place at the table beside FitzSimmons.
It grew uncomfortable in the hall. While FitzSimmons pointedly ignored Stephen, some of his men glared at him. Stephen would have liked to have remained by the fire, where it was warm, but he could smell trouble brewing from the retainers’ sharp looks. Given what they had to do, it was best to avoid fights at inns. Injury was always a possibility, as well as attracting the attention of the local authorities; both might make it impossible to go on. So Stephen urged Harry and Gilbert to retire to their chamber. Gilbert carried Harry up the stairs, grunting and complaining at every step while those in the hall below watched until they disappeared.
After some time, there was a knock at the door. Gilbert opened it, holding his back — he had not stopped complaining about the injury he had suffered lugging Harry’s weight. One of the men who had been with FitzSimmons stood in the doorway. He stepped around Gilbert without waiting for an invitation. He glanced down at Harry’s stumps, but his expression did not change from studied indifference.
“Evening, my lord,” the man said to Stephen.
“Walter, how are you?” Stephen asked. He and Walter were well acquainted. Walter was a retainer and the bodyguard of the beautiful woman, one Margaret de Thottenham.
“I am well, my lord, as I hope you are,” Walter said. “I have a message from my lady. She asks, if you are free this evening, that you would visit her in her chamber.”
Stephen nodded. “What about FitzSimmons?”
“I don’t think you need to worry about him,” Walter said.
“You sure? Will you guard the door?” Stephen said with a small smile. “I’d hate to be taken unaware.”
Walter returned the smile. “Certainly.”
Stephen stood before the door to Margaret’s chamber. He felt it would be a mistake to knock. The prudent thing was to walk away and, in the morning, get as far from FitzSimmons and Margaret de Thottenham as he could. Trouble followed them around like a bad smell.
Before he could turn about, however, Walter knocked for him and opened the door.
Margaret, a delicate woman with the face of an angel, was seated on the bed wearing a linen shift. Her hair was down in a single thick braid that fell over her shoulder and across her breasts. She smiled as if feeling genuine pleasure that he had come. There was no escape from that smile, or the seductive allure of her natural beauty.
Stephen paused on the threshold, took a deep breath and stepped into the room.
It was a plain chamber, the walls limewashed but unpainted, a single bed in the far corner that lacked posts and curtains.
“You have the habit of turning up in the most unexpected places,” she said. She patted the bed. “Come. Close the door and sit by me.”
Stephen shut the door but did not cross the room. “What if FitzSimmons finds out I am here?”
Margaret shrugged. “He won’t.”
Stephen wasn’t so sure. Inns were small places with thin walls. Discovery was a real danger. But Margaret seemed to thrive on danger.
“Are you afraid he’ll come crashing through the door?” Margaret asked.
“The thought crossed my mind. It could be uncomfortable for the both of us.”
She laughed. “I doubt we have to worry about that.” Her smile vanished, however, and her tone grew serious. “He’s already taken his revenge for your slights.”
These “slights” were many and included the killing of FitzSimmons’ cousin — justified because the young fellow had tried to murder Stephen — defeating FitzSimmons in a p
rivate duel; and Stephen’s finding of a letter from Simon de Montfort to Rogier FitzHerbert. The letter referred to contained instructions from Simon de Montfort to his emissary to the Welsh proposing an alliance with the rebels in exchange for lands in the March. Stephen had promised to get the letter for Margaret, and by extension FitzSimmons, whom she worked for. Instead, Stephen had given the letter to Lord Edward, who had made it public in an effort to draw support for the king from the fractious Marcher lords, who naturally saw Montfort’s proposed alliance with the Welsh as a threat to their power and position.
“What do you mean?” Stephen asked, about Margaret’s reference to revenge.
“The burning of your manor,” she said. “Nigel was behind it. It was on his urging.”
“He knew about my manor? I’ve only had it barely a week.”
Margaret shrugged. “We all know.” She cocked her head. “Even about your marriage. The earl of Arundel was very upset, I heard.”
“Are you jealous?”
“Oh, come.” She paused. “Well, a little.”
Stephen wasn’t sure whether to believe her. They had been on-and-off lovers as the circumstances of their disparate lives allowed, but she had never struck him as being attached to him in any serious way; he was a plaything to her, nothing more, a diversion. Yet she was a consummate liar and never revealed her true thoughts. And he had always had the feeling she was also a dangerous woman to cross.
“And you had no say in the matter? Of the raid?”
“You suspect me!”
“I know your wrath is terrible,” Stephen said, with some exaggeration. He had never actually seen her be wrathful, but he suspected that she could make a head roll if she wanted to.
She laughed again. “Oh, Stephen! You are far too useful to me to interfere with your prosperity.”
“Useful, am I?” Stephen said. “Am I here to be useful as a bed pony, or do you require something else?”
Margaret started to speak, paused, pursed her lips, looked at a loss, and finally said, “I need your help.”
“More spying? My position is different now. I am a liegeman of Princess Leonor.” Which meant that no matter what merit he saw in Simon de Montfort’s views on the misgovernance of the kingdom, he was bound to the king’s party, for good or ill. He had walked a fine line in the past between the two factions, for he did see merits in the criticisms of the Crown’s management of the country, but that latitude was not available now.
She shook her head. “Nothing so easy. I have a son. Nigel holds him hostage against my good behavior and cooperation. Can you fetch him for me? If you don’t, I’ll never be free.”
When Stephen said nothing, Margaret sent on, “I have prayed for Oliver’s deliverance. And when I saw you in the hall, I knew God had answered my prayers. Only you can bring him back to me!”
“Margaret, I have a commission,” Stephen said. “It is as dear to the man who engaged me as yours is to you.”
She came off the bed and grasped his jacket. He could smell the scent of some flower about her.
“I will pay you!” Margaret said.
“It is not about money,” Stephen said.
She shook him. “I know something about manors! I know how much it costs to get one started after it’s been ravaged. I will pay you —” she named a sum equal to the yearly yield of two good sized manors, an amount that would make an ordinary man dizzy with greed.
Could Margaret pay this amount? Stephen knew she was a wealthy woman, but he didn’t know much about her situation.
“For that amount, you could hire a score of men,” Stephen said. “Why haven’t you done so?” He grasped Margaret’s hands, disentangled her fingers from his coat and held her away.
She stepped back. Tears coursed down her cheeks.
“You don’t have that kind of money,” Stephen said.
Margaret sank back onto the bed. She shook her head. “Not yet. I’m sorry.”
Her fingers brushed his thigh, for he had followed her to the bed. “I can pay you in other ways,” she said.
Stephen squeezed her hand, then stepped back.
“You’re being faithful,” Margaret said.
That statement led nowhere Stephen wanted to go. So, he asked, “Where is Oliver? Do you know?”
“Northampton,” she said, naming one of the rebels’ great strongholds.
“And you think I can get him out of there?” Stephen asked incredulously.
Margaret nodded. “You’re the only one who can.”
“Assuming I do this, how will I know the boy?”
Margaret held out a hand to indicate Oliver’s height. “He’s six. He is about so tall now, or should be. I haven’t seen him in more than a year. He has black hair, ruddy cheeks and blue eyes. And a sweet smile. He looks rather like you, as a matter of fact. Well, except for the cheeks.”
“The poor lad.”
“But he may not be there long. Nigel plans to move him. There’s been word from our spies that the king is considering an attack on the town.”
That was an astonishing thing for Margaret to say. The king’s men would give a fortune to know who those spies were. “Any idea where he’ll be moved?”
“No. I’m afraid not.”
Stephen nodded and reached for the door latch. “I will think about it. I can’t promise you anything.”
He nodded to Walter, who was loitering beside the door, on the way out and climbed the stairs to his bedchamber, wondering what, if anything, he should do, and perhaps say to Harry.
Chapter 7
Harry was asleep when Stephen returned. Stephen sat on one side of the bed and Gilbert sat on the other with Harry snoring loudly between them.
“You’re back sooner than I expected,” Gilbert remarked as he slipped under the blanket and gave Harry an elbow in order to seize a bit more of the bed. He might as well have prodded a boulder because Harry neither budged nor acknowledged the prod. Gilbert surrendered to the inevitable and pulled the blanket up to his chin. “He better not push me out, that’s all I have to say.”
Stephen blew out their sole candle of smelly tallow and lay back without elbowing Harry, since he had seen that the effort was futile; in any case, sideways movement by Harry probably would result in Gilbert sleeping on the floor. Beds were never big enough for all those who piled into them, especially at inns. At least they had enough blankets, having had the foresight to bring their own.
“Well?” Gilbert said into the dark.
“Well, what?” Stephen replied.
“What did the harpy want? She must have wanted something other than your handsome self for you to finish your business so quickly. Or are you out of practice?”
“She’s not a harpy,” Stephen said, ignoring the discourteous jibe about his sexual prowess. “Harpies nag. Margaret is too regal to nag.”
“Witch, then,” Gilbert said.
“She is bewitching,” Stephen sighed.
“Did she want you to spy for her? I’m sure you told her we’re going to Gloucester. She’ll know we have to pass through Hereford, and Lord Edward is there with an army. Doubtless she’s eager to know what Edward’s up to.”
“You heard?”
“Everybody’s talking about it downstairs. Didn’t you hear them?”
“No, she didn’t want to talk about Lord Edward.”
Gilbert lifted himself on an elbow. “But it’s something equally dangerous.”
“I suppose it is,” Stephen said.
“Well?”
“Well, what?”
“What is it?”
“I’d rather not say.”
“If you won’t cough it up, I’ll come round and sit on you until you come clean.”
“God forbid! I’ll be crushed.”
“Damned right, you will be. And deservedly so. Keeping secrets from your comrades in arms.”
“You’re hardly in arms.”
Gilbert sniffed. “I’m waiting.”
Stephen let the
moments tick off, wishing he had some facile way to avoid responding. But it was clear that Gilbert would not quit pestering him.
“She has a son,” Stephen said. “FitzSimmons holds him hostage against her good behavior and cooperation. Margaret wants me to free him for her.”
Gilbert was quiet while he considered this. “What did she offer?”
“Money.”
“How much?”
“That wasn’t clear.”
“And you agreed?”
“I said I’d think about it.”
Gilbert snorted. “You are besotted!”
“I am not.”
“Yes, you are. And she expects you to ride to the rescue upon the dawn, I suppose.”
“I suppose.”
“What will you tell Harry?”
“What makes you think I have something to tell him?”
“Well, you don’t have to say anything at the moment. Perhaps we should hurry on to Gloucester and find his boys straightaway. How hard could that be, after all? I doubt they’ve been sold to Africa or elsewhere. They’re probably laboring on some manor nearby. It will only take a few days at most to find them and buy them back.”
“I hope so,” Stephen murmured.
“So, we get them back and then you can embark on your wild goose chase. What love does to a man!”
“It isn’t love.”
“You can fool yourself but you can’t fool me.”
Stephen lay awake for some time thinking about one thing Gilbert had mentioned. The news that Lord Edward was in Hereford with a royalist army alarmed Stephen almost as much as the presence of a baronial force at Wigmore. He had not yet received a summons from the prince to attend the king’s standard, but he thought he could expect one had he stayed at Ludlow. And now, if he appeared at Hereford, there was a good chance Edward might learn of it and summon him there. Any chance of finding Harry’s boys would be gone then.
So, the next morning, they rode east on the familiar road to Bromyard and beyond that to Worcester, where stood the last bridge over the River Severn before Gloucester. Stephen could have taken a shorter route on back roads around Hereford, but he did not know the way that well and it was too easy to get lost and perhaps blunder into a foraging party from the army encamped at Hereford. He was taking no chances, even if the route meant a day’s delay in reaching Gloucester — it took one day alone just to get to Worcester. By crossing the Severn, Stephen hoped to put the river between them and the two armies, which had to be maneuvering for battle, with all the dangers posed by outriders, scouts and foragers that entailed.
