[Stephen Attebrook 11] - Missing

by Jason Vail

  Stephen awoke in the early morning to voices shouting outside the room of their inn at Worcester. The walls muffled the words, but it became rapidly evident, as the fog of sleep whisked away, that quite a number of people were disturbed by something.

  Gilbert heard it too. He sat up and said, “What is it? What’s going on?”

  The pounding of running feet could be felt as several people ran by their door and thundered down the stairs to the hall.

  “A fire, you think?” Harry asked, sitting up as well. When calamity struck in the night, fire was the first thing that people thought of. Fires were an ever-present danger in a town like Worcester, which was full of timber and thatched houses.

  “We should see what it is,” Gilbert said. “If it’s a fire, we might want to take precautions.”

  Indeed, they might. A fire could sweep through the tightly packed houses of a town like Worcester in no time at all.

  “I’ll go see what’s the matter,” Stephen said, throwing off the blanket and pulling on his boots, glad that he had slept fully clothed against the cold. “You two get our things together in case we have to run for it.”

  Stephen padded down to the hall, which fronted the street. There was a crowd at the front windows looking out. This was not behavior usual for a fire, so Stephen tapped one of those with a good view outside. “What’s happening?”

  The man whose shoulder had been tapped shrugged off the question but the man beside Stephen growled, “The town’s under attack.”

  The answer dumbfounded Stephen. “What do you mean, under attack?”

  “Were you born deaf or stupid?” the man growled. “Just what I said. The Bridge Gate has fallen and the enemy’s within the walls.”

  Stephen didn’t respond to this. The notion that Bridge Gate, a stone fortification flanked by formidable towers, might have fallen in the middle of the night was an idea so fantastic that he could not readily believe it. He wormed his way through the crowd so he could see out onto Bridge Street. Spear-armed infantrymen were streaming up the street past groups of armored knights and sergeants. A troop of mounted knights trotted by coming from the direction of Bridge Gate followed by jogging archers. The man in the lead shouted to a knight on foot across the street, “Well done, my lord Derby! Well done!”

  “I told you it’d be easy!” this Derby shouted back.

  “Who would want to attack Worcester?” Stephen asked, drawing back from the window as one of the knights on the street noticed the cracked shutters and the men huddled behind them. He closed the shutters as the knight approached the window.

  “It’ll be Montfort’s men,” said a voice out of the dark. “Trying to get back across the Severn, no doubt, to make more mischief.”

  “Derby,” someone else said. “That’ll be the earl of Derby, I’m sure, Robert Ferrers. He’s a Montfort man.”

  “This isn’t going to end well,” another voice said.

  “What you mean?” asked a third.

  “This is a king’s town. I have a feeling those boys aren’t going to ride through and leave us be.”

  …those boys aren’t going to ride through and leave us be …

  Those words rattled around in Stephen’s head as he climbed the stairs to the bedchamber. He had a pretty good idea what they meant, since he had some experience in the plundering of towns and what usually occurred — the murder and mayhem, the rampant theft, the destruction for the sheer love of it that might well include the burning of the town, the carrying off of people for ransom.

  And he doubted there was any way to get out of town before this happened. The town was walled clear around, even along the river, and by this time, the town gates would be held by the enemy and the streets patrolled by soldiers to keep people indoors and confused until the whirlwind fell upon them. It likely wouldn’t happen for a while yet — the plundering of a town was actually a fairly well-ordered business, not merely haphazard thievery, and it could take a while for the leaders to get things organized. So, he had time to think.

  Halfway up, Stephen turned around and went back down. Their inn, the Dancing Swan, lay on the righthand side of the road leading to Bridge Gate when you faced into town. He remembered seeing an open area behind the stables when he put up the horses. He made his way across the courtyard to a gap between the stable and a shed to get a better look at it. As he suspected, there was a large area behind the houses and their rear gardens that was occupied by an orchard. The houses formed a semicircle with one end at Bridge Gate and the other about two-hundred paces away also ending at the town wall. He walked through the orchard to the back of the enclosure and there the city wall reared a full twenty feet above his head. He heard voices from the direction of Bridge Gate, but no sounds came on the wall walk above his head, no voices, no sounds of footsteps, nor did any silhouettes come into view. So, the enemy hadn’t yet mounted a watch along the wall. Perhaps they would not bother. It would take many men to hold the gates and then to carry out the plundering, so they might not spare any for a watch on the walls. No one could get up to the walk from the ground except at one of the towers along its length so there was no reason to fear that someone might try to escape that way.

  He stood at the foot of the wall for a few moments, wondering how to climb it. He glanced back the way he had come. The house next to Bridge Gate was smack against the wall. He wondered if it was the same on the other side of the semi-circle.

  He turned left and walked along the wall to the far end, the one away from Bridge Gate, until he reached a series of back gardens enclosed by wicker fences. A dog barked at him from several houses away. Several others joined him. Stephen ignored the dogs.

  The house at this end of the semi-circle looked to abut the wall. Its roof rose above the wall walk. The roof was thatch, like most of the others he could see. It would be easy to break through that thatch and cross to the wall walk. The difficult part lay in getting down on the other side.

  But when Stephen reached the back garden of the house, it was clear the house didn’t touch the wall. There was an alley wide enough for a small cart, say six or eight feet, that separated the house from the wall. He probably could jump the distance, but Gilbert and Harry stood no chance. But if he could rig a rope across the gap, they might make it.

  Where was he to get rope, though?

  Stephen crossed through the orchard to the inn, where he pulled open the stable door. It was still too dark to see his own hand in front of his face except near the door, but he was able to navigate down the row of stalls by keeping a hand upon the wall. Each of the stalls had halters with ropes attached hanging on hooks by the stall doors. He gathered six halters and hid them behind the woodpile near the stable. Joined together, the ropes should be long enough to climb down from the top of the wall.

  When Stephen returned to the courtyard, it had grown lighter. It occurred to him that the men guarding Bridge Gate could probably see along the wall to the spot he planned to cross it. So, it was likely too late to get over it now. If he planned to get over the wall, he would have to wait until it was dark again. What if the pillage and plundering started before then?

  While Stephen thought about this, there was stirring in the inn’s detached kitchen. A woman emerged and tossed a bucket of water into the yard, glanced at Stephen and went back inside, where smoke had begun to dribble from the peak of the roof as the cooks got the fires restarted. Didn’t the laborers have an inkling what was going to happen? But then, what if Stephen’s fears were wrong?

  He crept through the passage from the inn’s courtyard to the street for a look. A party of six soldiers guarded the gate. All seemed quiet. Was he wrong about the possibility of a sack of the town?

  Stephen stepped out to get a better view toward the center of town to see if there was any activity in that direction. One of the soldiers at the gate yelled, “You there! Get back inside!”

  When Stephen did not retreat, two soldiers marched toward him with leveled spears, repeating the order.r />
  Stephen held up his hands and backed into the passage a few paces. “Easy there, boys. I just wanted to know what’s been happening.”

  “What’s happening is that the town’s ours and everyone in it,” one of the soldiers said.

  “So what are you planning to do with the town, plunder it?”

  The soldiers exchanged glances.

  “We’ve been told to be on our best behavior,” the soldier said.

  “Is skewering curious people in the street your best behavior?”

  “We’ve got to keep order. People might get ideas into their heads.”

  “Like what?”

  “Like making trouble.”

  “You don’t have to worry about me. I’d just as soon get out of town as soon as I can. Avoids any unpleasantness, you know.” Stephen lowered a hand and touched his belt pouch as if to reach inside. “Perhaps you might be able to help.”

  The soldier he’d been speaking to looked back at the gate. “Can’t. We’ve got an officer here.”

  “What you got in there?” the other soldier asked suddenly. He had a large mole on his nose and he rubbed it as if it smarted.

  “Not much,” Stephen said. “A few odds and ends.”

  “Let me see,” mole nose demanded. He advanced into the passageway, hand out.

  “Ned!” the other soldier said sharply. “Leave off. You heard what Sir Ralph said. Keep the locals calm.” He sniffed at Stephen. “We’ll have a crack at you later, I imagine.”

  “Will you, now,” Stephen said.

  Ned, of the molely nose, smiled maliciously. “And there won’t be nothing you can do about it.”

  “You’re sure they’re going to pillage the town?” Gilbert asked worriedly.

  “It’s probably already started,” Stephen said grimly. “They just haven’t got this far yet.” He outlined his idea of how the plundering would proceed, with troops blocking off one street at a time so no one could flee while others proceeded house to house, taking everything that wasn’t nailed down.

  “Why would they pillage Worcester?” Gilbert asked. “I don’t understand it.”

  “The town stands for the king,” Stephen said. “The war’s started. They don’t need more reason than that. Anyway, it’s the easiest way to pay the army.”

  “So what do we do?” Harry asked. “Sit here and wait to be pillaged? If we’re robbed and killed, I’ll never see my boys again.”

  “He’s not sure,” Gilbert said, extemporizing. “It’s just a feeling he has.”

  ‘You know, you’re a wealthy innkeeper,” Stephen said. “You can be expected to fetch a good ransom.”

  “Oh, dear,” Gilbert said. “They would make that mistake, wouldn’t they? And when Edith cannot pay …” He drew a finger across his neck.

  “You can stay here, if you don’t trust my feelings,” Stephen said. “I’m getting out.”

  “I’ll go with you,” Harry said. “But how are we to get out? You said the near gate was guarded. All the others must be as well.”

  “I have a plan,” Stephen said. “We just need a place to hide until nightfall.”

  Stephen carried Harry on his back down the stairs. Gilbert followed with all their baggage, which included Stephen’s arms and armor, brought along to make him appear formidable to thieves on the road and to anyone else who needed impressing. This all weighed less than Harry but there was a lot of it in several satchels, and Gilbert dropped one thing or another three times before they crossed the courtyard to the alley leading to the orchard in the common ground surrounded by the houses.

  “Good God!” Harry said to Gilbert at his last fumble. “Could you make less noise? People will notice! The idea’s that we become invisible! How can we be so with all your racket?”

  “I’m doing the best I can!” Gilbert gasped as he juggled Stephen’s shield and the satchels containing clothes and money.

  “I could do a better job of it than that lout,” Harry griped in Stephen’s ear.

  “Next time, it will be your turn,” Stephen gasped.

  He entered the orchard and crossed to the far edge, where he deposited Harry in the grass.

  “Don’t run away,” Stephen said, straightening up, a hand on his back where a crick had cracked dangerously.

  “Ha, ha,” Harry said.

  Gilbert plopped down beside Harry.

  “This isn’t much of a hiding place,” Gilbert said, panting from his struggles with the baggage.

  “We aren’t going to hide here,” Stephen said. He wriggled into his mailed chausses, which protected his feet and legs, then the gambeson and finally he pulled his head and shoulders though the bottom of his mail shirt. This was a difficult process when a man had no help. Stephen pulled out his tabard, its blue outer side somewhat faded, wishing that he had laundered the it before they had set out; it was soiled and stained. He buckled on his sword belt over the tabard, stuck his arming cap in his belt, hung his shield from one shoulder and walked toward the second house from the wall.

  Despite the armor, Stephen vaulted the whicker fence to the rear garden. He crossed the back garden to the rear door. He paused and pushed the door open.

  The door opened into a kitchen with a large firepit at the center and tables, chests, bins and cabinets around the edges. A woman of thirty or so was crouched by the fire with two small children. Her attention had been on the doorway leading to the hall, but whipped around in terror as Stephen entered.

  “Please don’t hurt us!” she cried. “Take anything you want!” She waved her arms as if to indicate things about and behind her but the effect was of a large fat bird flapping its wings.

  “I have no intention of taking anything or hurting anyone,” Stephen said. “Are you the mistress of the house?”

  The woman nodded.

  “Do you have a name?” Stephen asked.

  “Mildred,” the woman said.

  “Well, Mistress Mildred, I suppose you know that the army occupying the town has plans to plunder it.”

  Mildred nodded. “It’s already started!” She said in a shaking voice. “Two streets over! Can’t you hear? Neighbors across the street came with word of it!”

  Stephen cocked an ear. Now that she mentioned it, he could hear faint shouting. All to the good, for him, anyway. Not so good for Mildred’s family, but it provided a point of persuasion for her to cooperate with his idea.

  “They’ll be here soon,” he said.

  “What are we to do?”

  “You have a root cellar out back, don’t you?”

  Mildred nodded.

  “How many people can it hide?”

  “I don’t know. It’s not large,” Mildred stammered.

  “It will have to do,” Stephen said.

  “But they’ll find it!” The cellar door was set in a raised rectangle of stone. Stephen had passed it as he crossed the garden. Mildred was right; it was quite conspicuous and was a place any decent pillager was sure to look.

  “Not if we change its appearance.”

  Stephen deposited Harry on the ground in the root cellar. “Be nice to your hosts. I know that’s hard for you, but do your best.”

  “That old woman better keep her feet out of my face,” Harry grumbled as Mildred jostled against him. It was crowded in the cellar with Mildred, three of her daughters and four servants, not to mention the valuables they had brought with them in sacks. “If anyone steps on me again, they’re going to get it. I’m a man, not a carpet.”

  “No, I would have thought you a doormat,” Stephen said.

  Before Harry could reply, Stephen climbed the stairs, where Gilbert, Mildred’s husband, and her oldest son were waiting. He glanced around the back gardens and along the wall. No one seemed to be watching.

  “We probably don’t have much time,” he said. “Let’s get this done as fast as possible.

  This was moving a substantial dung pile from one side of the yard to the other. Many houses had such dung piles, mainly of cow manure as a re
liable source of fuel for a hearth fire — it was cheaper than wood. This pile was as tall as Stephen, which meant it was very substantial, and suggested that the owner of the house was a dealer in dung, buying it in the country and selling it in the town. With the four of them working with pitchforks and wheelbarrows, driven by rising fear as shouts from the other side of the houses rose in volume, they had the dung pile moved in half an hour so that it now covered the cellar’s entrance almost completely.

  “That’s good enough,” Stephen said. “Down you go.”

  Gilbert tossed his pitchfork aside. “At least it’s cow shit we’re hiding under and not a pile of corpses,” he said in reference to how he and Stephen had burrowed beneath a mound of dead bodies to shield themselves from the terrible flames of a fire that had consumed part of Clun Castle a year ago when they had been prisoners of the earl of Arundel. “Though I do not relish the smell.”

  “Smell? What smell? There’s nothing more refreshing to the nose than cow dung.”

  “Huh. My mother used to burn it when I had chest congestion. Never got over the stink.”

  “Did it work?”

  “What? Burning the cow dung? Not so I noticed.”

  “Anyway, count your blessings that you have a place to hide,” Stephen said.

  Gilbert went down the stairs, followed by the husband and the son. Stephen finished covering the door so that the cellar now resembled a dung pile, although he was careful to leave a gap at the top of the door to admit air to those beneath. A few more trips with the wheelbarrow and the entire pile had a new home. The cart had left tracks, but Stephen erased them with a few swipes of a rake. There was a brown, moist patch where the pile had been. But Stephen hoped that the invaders wouldn’t notice, since there was nothing of apparent potential value in the yard now apart from various gardening tools.