[Stephen Attebrook 11] - Missing

by Jason Vail

  While the mountaineers were working on conjuring a flame, Penkil had the others fashion torches from sticks and bundles of thatch. When the fire finally caught the splits of wood, the freed men lighted the torches. They ran at the house; some held up the torches to the thatched roof in the front while others went around the back. Thatch is nothing but bundled dry sticks and burns like kindling. Within a few moments, half the roof was ablaze and the fire was so hot that Stephen and the other man had to stand back from it.

  “It won’t be long now,” Penkil said to Stephen, hefting his captured sword.

  The shrieking within the house began as soon as the flames spread on the roof. The door flew open and a half dozen women with twice as many children ran out.

  The last out the door was a figure in helmet, mail and sword and shield — Wint.

  He laid about with the sword, driving back the few armed freed men, but despite his desperate efforts, he could not break out of the ring that quickly surrounded him. Stephen with his buckler now in hand was the greatest roadblock, for a little thing like a buckler can be as handy in deflecting a sword cut as a proper shield. As the ring edged slowly across the yard, Stephen danced before Wint, giving ground grudgingly, trading blow for blow, parrying with his buckler and landing his own hammer blows on Wint’s head and shoulders when he couldn’t cover with his shield because of all the other blows rained upon him as Wint whirled to keep the others at a distance. Yet it was hard to bring down an armored man.

  Wint suddenly turned on one of the men to the side and sliced viciously at the man’s face. That fellow jerked his head back to avoid the cut, stumbled and fell. That left a momentary gap in the ring and Wint dashed through it.

  His tormenters pelted after him. Then Penkil, grasping his sword by the quillons, threw it like a spear. The sword took Wint in the right thigh just below the hem of his mail shirt. Wint stumbled and went to his knee, pivoting to face his pursuers. But two men got behind him and, as Wint raised his shield to parry one of Stephen’s blows, one man behind Wint clouted him on the head with an axe. The mighty, two-handed blow split the helmet and penetrated Wint’s skull. His eyes rolled up and he collapsed on his face.

  The man who had killed Wint tugged the axe free, kicked the corpse, and laughed as others slapped him on the back in congratulation.

  “Damn it!” Penkil spat, not taking part on the celebration. “Where’s Cihric?”

  He and Stephen ran back to the house, which was now fully aflame, the walls and rafters licking with fire. As they reached it, the beams on one side supporting the roof gave way with a terrific crash Stephen felt through his feet.

  “He can’t still be in there, can he?” Stephen asked.

  “He’s too much of a coward,” Penkil said. “He came out with the women.”

  Several of Penkil’s fellow slaves who had no weapons had halted the women’s flight near the barn. Two of the ex-slaves were grappling on the ground with one of the women, who was shrouded in a cloak.

  Stephen put his foot on the woman’s neck and peeled back her hood.

  It was not a woman at all, but a thin man with shaggy black hair and a great beard, the ends of which he had tucked into the collar of the cloak, but which also had come out during the struggle.

  “Ah, Cihric, aren’t you the clever one,” Stephen said.

  He grasped a handful of hair and, with the help of Penkil and the two ex-slaves, hauled Cihric to his feet.

  “If you spare me, there’s money in it for you,” Cihric gasped.

  “Really?” Stephen asked. “How much?”

  “All I have!”

  “Where is it? In the house?”

  “Yes! Yes!”

  “I thought so.”

  Stephen dragged Cihric by the hair to the doorway to the house.

  “What do you think, boys?” Stephen asked.

  Penkil and the two ex-slaves seemed to understand what Stephen had in mind. They nodded.

  “In you go then!” Stephen said. He threw Cihric through the doorway into a scene that looked like a glimpse of Hell itself. “Go fetch it for us!”

  Cihric shrieked and thrashed among the flames. His hair and clothing caught fire at once and he became a human candle sitting upright in the fire before he fell back, blackened hands in the air, flames spouting on the fingertips, as if reaching for something.

  Stephen turned away, baked by the scorching heat on his back with the cold of the night on his face. It felt like small justice for Harry, but it was all he was going to get.

  Chapter 23

  Harry was resting outside the door to the tavern’s barn, where he and Gilbert had spent the night, when Stephen rode in with young John sitting behind him.

  “Is that John?” Harry croaked. “God’s sweat, he’s so grown up. Last time I saw him, he was a wee babe.”

  “It’s him,” Stephen said as he dismounted. He let John down.

  “Who’s that?” John pointed to Harry.

  “I’m your papa, son,” Harry said.

  “No, you’re not. My pa’s dead. And … and … he wouldn’t be like you!”

  “I am you pa, son, if you’re Megge’s babe,” Harry said. “What’s left of me, anyway.”

  “You’re not my pa!” John shouted.

  He turned away and shuffled to the nearby horse paddock, where he slumped to the ground. He wiped his face with his palms.

  “Where’s Theo?” Harry asked Stephen.

  “I’m afraid he’s dead, Harry.”

  Harry’s face hardened and his eyes fell to the ground. “I hope they gave him a Christian burial,” he muttered.

  “He got one,” Stephen said.

  “You know where he lies?”

  Stephen hesitated, nodded.

  “Saddle my horse,” Harry commanded. “We’re going there.”

  “Harry, that’s not a good idea.”

  “You’re telling me I can’t visit my son’s grave?”

  “There was a … disturbance at the mining camp last night, something besides the fact that John’s run away. The local lord, who owns the camp, will be looking for those involved.”

  “And that would include you?” He squinted at John. “I wondered why you showed up with him behind you, and having not come back for the money.”

  “Yes, so we must be away without further delay. Lord Hywel should hear of the matter any time now.”

  “I’ll go myself. You can do what you like.” He levered himself into the barn, where the horses were stabled and the tack hung up. Over his shoulder he said, “But you will have to tell me the way.”

  It did not take long to reach St. Peter’s Church below the mining camp once they got the horses saddled. They rode at a fast trot after they cleared Painscastle at Stephen’s insistence, a bouncing, punishing gate for John, Harry and Gilbert, but they did not complain.

  Neither Hova nor Morvel were in sight when they entered the churchyard, riding through the gate without dismounting — a breach of etiquette in other times; the girl Enith, who was handing washing over a fence, saw them and shot a disapproving glance.

  Harry let himself down, hanging on the pommel of his saddle before slipping down a stirrup leather. He swung toward the long, low pile of fresh earth by the fence at the back of the yard. He stopped when he reached it and folded his hands in his lap. His face was as stony as when he first heard Stephen’s report.

  “Was a Mass said for him?” Harry asked.

  “Yes,” Stephen said.

  Harry nodded. “Small comfort, that.”

  He swung toward his horse. Stephen bent to lift him to the saddle, but Harry batted Stephen’s hands away.

  “I don’t want your help,” Harry spat.

  He chinned himself one-handed on a stirrup leather so that he could grasp the saddle pommel with the other hand, and hauled himself into the saddle.

  Chapter 24

  They went west from St. Peter’s Church — Stephen deemed it too dangerous to return to Painscastle and pick up
the road to Hay from there. Gilbert demurred to Stephen while Harry scowled and said nothing. After several miles, Stephen, John riding pillion behind him, left the road, crossed a valley with several brooks flowing westward, and climbed a steep, wooded hill. Just before the top, the forest gave way to heather, for the summit was bald and forbidding, as unpleasant a place to travel through as a Yorkshire moor. Stephen looked back for the others and watched Gilbert urge his mare onward. He waited until Gilbert caught up.

  “Where’s Harry?” Stephen asked.

  “He’ll be along, I suppose,” Gilbert said.

  Harry had lagged behind Gilbert and Stephen since they left the churchyard, his face twisted in a grimace.

  “Mourning for Theo?” Stephen asked.

  “Perhaps, but I think there’s more to it than just that.”

  “Enlighten me, wise one.”

  “He’s upset about John, and he doesn’t know what to say to the boy.”

  When they were together Stephen turned his mare and pressed southward over the top of the mountain. He entered the forest again on the far slope and heard the gurgling of a spring. He found it among the bracken and followed the course of the stream that flowed out of it. The stream was a tiny thing at first, but gradually grew in size as other streams joined it. It entered a steep ravine and they made slow progress around stones and boulders until they came upon a footpath, which made going faster.

  They passed isolated farmsteads here and there, and the footpath became a track that might charitably have been called a road.

  An hour after they found the stream, they came to a small village with a neat stone church, which a woman carrying a basket on her head said was called Broughrood. She informed them with a finger where to find the road to Glasbury, which would get them to Hay eventually.

  As Stephen turned his horse in the direction of the finger, he heard Harry mutter, “Trusting idiot! We’ll probably end up in Ireland” — a reference to the fact they had got lost on the way to Hay because Stephen had trusted the directions given to them and it was almost half a day before they realized the error.

  It was four miles to Glasbury, where a bridge crossed the Wye, and another four to Hay. By the time they got to Hay, Stephen’s mare had begun to flag, which wasn’t surprising since she had worked hard without much rest for the last two days.

  They took a room at the Blue Boar Inn outside the town’s south gate, and had a silent supper. Harry and John went up to their room after supper. Stephen and Gilbert remained in the hall and drank weak ale until the sun finally went down and people turned either to corners of the hall or stumbled up the stairs to their beds.

  When Stephen and Gilbert entered bearing a candle to light the way, Harry was awake in the middle of the bed with his arms crossed. John was standing in the corner with his arms also crossed. John’s resemblance to Harry was remarkable in this pose. They also had the same exact, obstinate expressions on their faces and looked very like each other.

  “He wants me to get sleep there,” John spat, pointing at the sole bed in the room. “With him!”

  “I know you’re not a frequenter of inns,” Stephen said. “But when there’s only one bed, it’s customary to share it. Unless you prefer the floor.”

  “I’ll sleep in the hall,” John said.

  He went out.

  Stephen shrugged at Harry, took up Harry’s cloak and his own, along with a pair of satchels to use as pillows and went down to the hall looking for John.

  John was seated at a bench near the hearth fire. Stephen dropped a cloak and satchel at his feet. “There’s a chamber pot by the door if you have to go after everyone’s asleep.” He pointed toward the front door. “Don’t wander off.”

  “What’s the satchel for?” John asked, prodding it with a toe.

  “It’s for a pillow. You know what a pillow is, right?”

  John shrugged. He pushed the satchel under the table, wrapped himself in the cloak and lay down beneath the table. “This pillow’s lumpy.”

  “It’s the best we have,” Stephen said. “Quit complaining.”

  Stephen did not retire, but found a spot by the hearth fire, which was still going, although it had burned down to coals that gave off a lot of heat but little light. A half dozen people clustered about the fire on benches, enjoying a last cup of ale before they went to bed among the tables and benches. One of their number had apparently just arrived from Gloucester because everyone gave the fellow, a pack horse driver, rapt attention as he regaled them with the latest news. Lord Edward had concluded a treaty with the rebels, who had withdrawn upon Edward’s pledge that he would not take action against those within the town who had aided and supported them. Once the enemy rearguard disappeared into the east, however, Edward had ordered the arrest of the prominent men in Gloucester who had helped the rebels, especially those who made it possible for John Giffard to get into town. The arrests had been accompanied by the plunder of the supporters’ businesses and houses, which involved a great deal of destruction, but fortunately no fires.

  “They expect us to keep our oaths,” the pack horse driver complained, “but they think nothing of breaking theirs when it’s convenient.”

  There were nods about the fire.

  “Hmm,” Stephen muttered to himself, remembering how the rebels’ supporters had badly used the king’s men in the town. “It’s not like they didn’t have it coming.”

  “What?” someone asked.

  “It’s nothing,” Stephen said. Wars of the kind now unfolding turned neighbor against neighbor, even father against son, and it was going to get worse. But no good could come of talking about it.

  “War is coming,” one of the listeners said, almost as if he had heard Stephen’s thoughts.

  “What do you mean?” one of the listener’s companions chided with a push on the shoulder that nearly knocked the target off his bench. “War’s already started!”

  “I reckon so,” the listener replied. “I just hope it don’t come here.”

  “We got enough to worry about with the Welsh just over the river,” another man said. “Say, speaking of the Welsh, have you heard that someone raided Painscastle’s copper mine? Killed all the men there and burned the place.”

  “Get out!” someone said.

  “It’s true! I just came from Painscastle this afternoon! A right slaughter it was!”

  “Why would anyone do that? Nothing to steal at a mine but a lot of dirt.”

  “Who knows? It’s the Welsh we’re talking about. They’d sooner fight than spit.”

  “That’s true.”

  With that, the innkeeper came up with the clay pot used to cover the fire and set it over the coals. “It’s late, boys. Time to hit the blankets.”

  “You know,” one of the late-night revelers said at this, “you ought to clean the rushes more often. They stink worse than a privy.”

  “If you don’t like it, there’s always outside,” the innkeeper said, hooking a thumb at the door. “No, eh? Then goodnight to you all. And don’t forget to use the chamber pot by the door. I do like to keep my rushes clean, no matter what you might think.”

  Chapter 25

  Thirty miles from Hay was a long day’s ride, and it was nearly sundown when they reached Ludlow.

  The horses were so spent that they barely made it up the Broad Street’s steep hill, and Stephen and Gilbert dismounted to lessen the strain on the home stretch.

  They turned into the dark ravine that was Bell Lane, glad to exercise their legs and lessen the pressure on aching buttocks, thoughts of a hot meal from the Broken Shield’s kitchen uppermost in mind. At least, it was uppermost in Stephen’s and Gilbert’s minds. Harry had not uttered a word all day.

  They halted at Stephen’s house across from the Broken Shield to allow Harry to let himself down. Harry opened the door and swung into the entrance hall. Stephen heard him open the door to his shop at the front of the house, slam it shut, and throw the bolt.

  The noise alerted
Joan who ran to the front door and looked out. “Oh! You’re back!” Her eyes took in the four horses, Stephen and Gilbert. “Did you find them? What happened?” Her eyes fastened on John, who was standing some distance away, as if he was a town child who happened to be in Bell Lane. “Is this one of the boys?”

  “This is John,” Gilbert said.

  “Wasn’t there a second boy?” Joan asked.

  “He died before we could get to him,” Gilbert said.

  “I’m so sorry,” Joan said. She beckoned to John. “Come in! Please! Be welcome.”

  “Who’re you?” John asked sullenly.

  “I work for Sir Stephen,” Joan said. “Where’s Harry?”

  “In the shop,” Stephen said.

  Joan went to the shop door and lifted the latch. But being barred, the door refused to open. “Harry! Open up this instant!”

  “Go away!” came his reply.

  “Don’t give me that, Harry!” Joan shouted.

  “Leave me alone!”

  She turned to Stephen, who was watching through the front door. “What should I do?”

  “Leave him be, I expect,” Stephen said. “I don’t know what else you can do, unless you want to break down the door.”

  When Stephen returned from putting up the horses at the Broken Shield’s stable, Harry was still shut up inside his shop.

  Stephen rapped on the door and shouted through it, “Harry! We’re going to supper at the Shield! Join us if you want!”

  He went back to the hall and repeated to Joan that she didn’t need to prepare anything this evening.

  “It’s a good thing,” she sighed. “I don’t have much ready. I didn’t expect you.”

  She took Chris by the hand and went out.

  “You, too, John,” Stephen said.

  “I thought you must be rich, but you’re really a knight?” John asked.

  “With a manor and everything. Now do you want to eat or not?”

  John nodded.

  “Then, come along,” Stephen said.

  They crossed Bell Lane to the Broken Shield. John marveled at the richness of the place, actual floors instead of packed dirt and rushes, black-painted pillars holding up black-painted ceiling beams, the place jammed with tables and benches.