Bad Money (A Stephen Attebrook mystery Book 6)

by Jason Vail

  “Did you hear anything about Wattepas?”

  “Why would I have heard of him?”

  “Because he wasn’t kidnapped. He went away with this Otto fellow of his own accord.”

  Gilbert’s brow furrowed. “That means he’s part of this, somehow. How do you know this?”

  “His mistress told me.”

  “Wattepas has a mistress? Ah — the woman Gwenllian. You had it out of her, eh? I should have liked to see that.”

  “Undo these ties, will you?” Stephen turned so that Gilbert could get at the ties along his spine that secured the gambeson.

  Gilbert fumbled with the ties. “What are we to do now?”

  “You’re to return straightaway to Ludlow. Edith is beside herself with worry, and I don’t want her torture to go on any longer than it must.”

  “But what of you?”

  “I must see about those fellows. I’ve done a terrible thing. Hanging won’t be good enough for me if it gets out. And with that sort, it always gets out.”

  Gilbert’s eyes ranged south toward Ludlow. “I should like to see how this turns out. That fellow with the harelip was very rude. I don’t think I shall go straight home. I will take a detour. Help me with this, will you?” Gilbert grasped the saddle on the rented horse. “It will not cooperate.”

  Stephen gave him a leg up. Gilbert plopped in the saddle and took up the reins.

  “Dear Lord, I curse the man who invented horse riding,” Gilbert said. “It’s such an unnatural way to get around.”

  “But faster than walking.”

  “I’ll give you that, although I hardly think that risking your life just to get around a little quicker is a good bargain.”

  “So you insist on coming?” Stephen asked as he folded the mail shirt and gambeson and put them in a canvas bag with his helmet.

  “There won’t be any fight, if my eyes are any judge.” Gilbert eyed the canvas bag. “I want to see what bit of magic you intend to use to save us. My life apparently is in the balance, after all.”

  Stephen mounted his mare. “Just be careful how you ride. She has a sensitive mouth, that mare, so don’t pull on her. And keep your legs still, otherwise she’s likely to run away with you. Just give her enough of a tap to encourage her to follow me. And don’t fall off.”

  “Don’t fall off — the best advice for riding a horse that I’ve ever heard!”

  They rode north at a slow walk, watching the sign left in the dirt by the kidnappers’ horses.

  A half mile or so beyond the crossroads, the road crossed the River Onny at a ford, and about two hundred yards beyond the ford, another road came in from the left. The tracks turned left and went west along this branch. Stephen breathed easier at the sight of this. He had guessed they would go that way, for at the end of the road some eight or ten miles away lay the town of Bishop’s Castle.

  The road west was not heavily traveled and in many places was no more than a cart track — three grooved paths, two for the cart wheels and the center one made by the horse. It followed the route of the Onny, on gently rising ground, flanked by wooded hills on either side.

  As Stephen followed the road, he grew more anxious and worried that things had gone wrong. But at last at another ford of the Onny, which flowed over the rocks of the stream bed, he came upon Tad Thumper.

  “We was wondering when you’d show up,” Tad said, rising from the fallen tree trunk that had been his seat by the side of the road.

  “Good Lord!” Gilbert exclaimed. “Tad Thumper! What are you doing here?”

  Tad spit into the road. “Wistwode, you fat old sod. You look better with a sack over your head. You should wear one more often.”

  “What is he doing here?” Gilbert asked Stephen. Gilbert’s eyes narrowed. He looked about at the forest, which pressed close in at this spot. “Where’s your father? Where’s Will Thumper?”

  “Enjoying the fruits of our hard labor,” Tad said.

  “Hard labor?” Gilbert asked.

  “Is it done, then?” Stephen asked.

  “This way,” Tad said, heading off into the woods that bordered the ford.

  Stephen followed on horseback for perhaps fifty yards before they reached a stand of long-haired ponies tethered to some elms. Will Thumper came round the ponies.

  “Sir Steve,” Thumper said, tossing a quarter loaf at Stephen, “have some dinner. Murder sure makes a man work up an appetite.”

  “They were no trouble?” Stephen asked.

  “Not a bit. It was like shooting fish in a barrel. Never knew what hit ‘em.”

  “I shot one!” Tad said.

  “First time, too,” Thumper said. “That’s my boy. Drilled him straight in the back. Not a moment’s hesitation.” He smiled with pride.

  “I daresay, that boy’s enough of a ruffian already,” Gilbert said. “Introducing him to murder is not my idea of setting a good fatherly example.”

  “If I was to raise him to be like you,” Thumper said, “he’d be beat down in a week. You’re lucky to be walking around, flapping your mouth the way you do with nothing to back it up.”

  “Don’t think it will always be so easy,” Stephen said.

  “You’ve shown us a thing or two on that score, you sure have!” Thumper said.

  By this time, all the Thumpers, more than a dozen men and boys, had paused in their dinner to gather around so that Stephen might hear their stories and admire their handiwork. But he stopped the babble that broke out with an upraised hand.

  “Where are they?” he asked.

  “That way.” Will pointed beyond the ponies where six horses were tethered to a line strung between two trees.

  Stephen, taking a bite out of his bread, went to see for himself. There, near the horses, the corpses of six rough-looking men were laid out side by side. Otto the harelip’s body was among them, one eye partly open, mouth slack. Stephen dug into Otto’s belt pouch and retrieved his purse and the dies.

  “That’s it, then,” he said. “I suggest that you not tarry. They’ll be missed soon and someone might come looking.”

  “And we get to keep the horses and all their tack? And their weapons, too?” Thumper asked.

  “That was the deal.”

  “Hear that boys? We’re rich!”

  “I’d sell them far from this part of the country if I were you.”

  “Good advice, but we know our business. Mount up, boys. Our work here is done.”

  The Thumpers and their loot had disappeared down the track at a brisk trot by the time Stephen and Gilbert returned to the road.

  “A devil’s bargain,” Gilbert said. “Nothing good comes from dealings with that man.”

  “It couldn’t be helped. He was our only chance.”

  “A frightening thought. What happens when they talk?”

  “The Thumpers are different. Most thieves sing like pigeons, but the Thumpers know how to keep silent when need be.”

  “You are more trusting than I.”

  “We don’t have a choice.”

  “I shall be glad to get home. I hope my dear Edith has not died from worry.”

  “Are you sure you want to go back now? That town’s not far.”

  “What town would that be? I never did catch its name.”

  “Bishop’s Castle.”

  “Ah — I have heard it is a lovely place. Such a disappointment to be denied its pleasures. Must we go there?

  “We should find out what Harelip was up to.”

  “Henry, his name is Henry.”

  “Really? He told me his name was Otto. A lie.”

  “Obviously.”

  “You are determined?”

  “Quite.”

  Gilbert’s shoulders sagged. “I should have known you’d say something like this. Well, let’s get on with it.

  Stephen nodded and turned his mare toward Bishop’s Castle.

  Chapter 21

  Stephen buried the dies along the side of the road, using his helmet as a shovel.
He chose a spot behind a large oak where it could not be seen by the casual passer-by. He covered the disturbed earth with leaves and placed a marker in the form of a white rock over the spot so he could find if and when he came back.

  Gilbert got up from his seat at the base of the tree as Stephen stood back and pried the dirt from beneath his fingernails with the point of his dagger.

  “I feel as though I should say a prayer,” Gilbert sighed. “So you’ll leave them here?”

  “It would have been amusing to make my own money.”

  “Scruples are such a burden. But it is good to see that you have some left, after what’s happened.”

  “Life would be easier without them. My mother worked too hard to pound them into me, though, to give them all up now.”

  They rode for another hour before town came abruptly into view from behind tall hedges on the right intended to keep the sheep in their field on the hill above the road. There was no wall or embankment and palisade, which was an oddity this far in the west of England, where the savage Welsh were prone to pour out of their mountain fastnesses to wreak havoc. The people of Bishop’s Castle might one day rue their decision to forego the expense of a wall, but then the presence of just such public works had not protected the town of Clun last autumn, which had been overrun and burned.

  A road came down the hill from the right that led to the back part of the castle. The peak of the motte peeped above the top of the castle’s stone wall. It should have been capped with a tower, but, as had been the case he was last here, only bushes and a few saplings occupied the summit where the tower should be. Stephen continued down High Street which lead downhill.

  It wasn’t far to a wide and somewhat level spot where two streets came together that served as the town market. At the corner, where High Street continued its precipitous journey downhill, was an inn, but Stephen passed it by. It was sure to be an expensive one, since it had a chimney, which indicated a fireplace, a rare and expensive feature. He continued down High Street, which ran a good two hundred yards before the town ended. As he remembered, there was a more modest inn here with a stable alongside it. They stabled their horses, storing Stephen’s baggage in the shed, and went into this inn, where dinner was just being served, to Gilbert’s relief, since he had not eaten since the day before.

  The inn’s hall was half the size of the one at the Broken Shield, but there was a fire in the hearth in the center of the floor, a bar well-stocked with small barrels of wine and ale, and the aroma of boiling beef from a kitchen at the rear. Stephen and Gilbert sat down, beckoning to the serving man behind the bar, thinking about the featherbeds they were going to ask for in place of the usual pallet filled with hay. Stephen’s purse bursting with stolen money was a temptation to indulge himself more than he knew he was entitled to. He felt a pang of conscience at this thought but he suppressed it with the explanation that Henry-Otto had been a bad man and the money, if it was even good money, had to come from some evil enterprise.

  The servant came over, wiping his hands on an apron. “What can I get you?”

  “Ale and a bit of that beef I smell, if you don’t mind,” Stephen said.

  “Very good. Cook makes it good and tender. Nothing like a bowl of fresh boiled beef, but I gotta warn ya, it comes expensive.”

  “I think we can manage it. Say, I’m looking for someone. I wondered if you could help me find him.”

  “Who’s that?”

  “Fellow name of Henry. Big, tough looking. A soldier. Has a harelip.”

  The servant squinted at the far wall. “I don’t know any such person. Why do you ask?”

  “He owes me money.”

  “That is unfortunate. Sorry I can’t help you.” The waiter turned to Gilbert. “And you? What will you have?”

  “The same.”

  “I’ll be right back.” The servant brought over cups of ale and retreated to the kitchen in the back of the house.

  “I don’t believe that for a minute!” Gilbert said. “In a town this size!”

  They had hardly finished their ale when the servant was back with bowls of stew, the beef swimming in gravy with carrots and leeks and a few errant beans and peas, and a half loaf of black bread so heavy that you could knock a man out with it, but it performed well for soaking up the gravy.

  “Quite satisfactory,” Gilbert murmured. “Tender, moist, salty. Just the way it should be. If only there were butter for the bread I would be in heaven.”

  “I’m glad you approve. I’d hate to see you get in a fight with the cook after you had criticized his work.”

  “I might steal the cook away if I didn’t already have a good one.” Gilbert swabbed more gravy with a chunk of bread. “I had thought finding this Henry’s lair would be easy. He stood out, I’ll say that for him. What are we going to do?”

  “Ask at every shop in High Street, I suppose. I can’t think of anything else to do.”

  “I was afraid you’d say that. I was hoping to finish this business in a day and be gone. One or two questions, the gang pin-pointed, and we’re off for the sheriff. Let him do the hard work of apprehending the evil doers. I don’t like it here.”

  Stephen and Gilbert worked their way up High Street, shop to shop, Stephen on one side of the road and Gilbert on the other as had become their practice. At each shop, Stephen asked after Henry the harelip and about Wattepas as well. But his questions had been received with the same caution as at the inn: evasive looks, pursed lips, and denials of any acquaintance with either man.

  Half way up the street he turned to look at Gilbert with an expression of inquiry, and got a shrug in return. Gilbert was meeting the same blank unfamiliarity. Had Gilbert not been confined in Bishop’s Castle after all? Was Henry’s hideaway somewhere outside town, where he could come and go without anyone here being the wiser? Yet it seemed hard to believe that even if that was true Henry would not have ridden into town at least once. A fellow like that stood out and was hard to forget.

  By this time, Stephen had reached the marketplace, where a butcher’s shop stood to the right across from the expensive inn. A woman was outside holding a goat on a tether that she wanted the butcher to dispatch for her. She and the butcher were disputing the cost while the goat attempted to nibble at the woman’s shoe. When she became aware of this, she gave it a kick, but it started again as she returned her attention to the butcher, who seemed to want more than the single swipe of a knife was worth to her. Perhaps it was a charge for her squeamishness, since most people slaughtered their own goats.

  Stephen was thinking about whether to ask the butcher about the location of the town’s whorehouse, which might be a better source of information, rather than bother him with questions about Henry or Wattepas when a child’s voice behind him called, “That’s him!”

  Stephen turned to find out who the “him” was. The boy was pointing at him. At the boy’s back were six burly fellows with swords.

  Stephen could not imagine why some boy he did not know would point him out on the street, and he glanced around to see if there might be someone else about who could be the target. But there was only him, the woman with the goat and the butcher. The boy and the appearance of the soldiers interrupted the negotiation, and the woman and the butcher fell silent to see what was going to happen. The goat did not seem interested, while Gilbert turned his back, suddenly preoccupied with pairs of gloves offered for sale at a shop across the street.

  “He’s the one been asking about Henry!” the boy said as the soldiers came around him and surrounded Stephen.

  “What you want with Henry?” one of the soldiers demanded as they surrounded Stephen.

  “Why, he, uh, owes me money,” Stephen said.

  “Fat chance of that. Who’re you?”

  “Nobody.”

  “You got a name, don’t ya?”

  “Well, yes.”

  “Then spit it out.”

  “Uh, Mark. It’s Mark.”

  “Owes you money, eh, Mark?”
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  “From the bowls. He lost at bowls.”

  “When’d this happen?”

  “A week or two ago. In Ludlow. At the Pidgeon.”

  One of the other soldiers said, “Henry was down there. Twice in the last month.”

  “But he don’t bowl,” said the man who had started the questions, who must be the leader.

  “Well, he might have done,” the second soldier said. “None of us were there.”

  “What you doing up here?” the leader asked Stephen.

  “Just passing through. Thought I’d look him up. It was a friendly game. He don’t have to pay up now if he can’t.”

  “What’s your business?” the leader asked.

  “I’m an archer.”

  “Are you, now. Let me see your right hand.”

  The leader didn’t wait for Stephen to offer the hand. He seized it and examined Stephen’s first two fingers.

  “Don’t look like you’re much of an archer to me,” the leader said, letting go of the hand.

  “I use a tab,” Stephen said. “You know how much the string cuts the fingers.”

  “Yeah, we know. We’re all archers.” The leader offered his own right hand. The first two fingers, which drew the string, were heavily calloused. He said to the others, “Something’s not right. Bring him along.”

  They marched Stephen up the hill to the castle. People in the shops and on the street gawked at the procession, no doubt thinking that he was some desperate evil-doer soon to pay for his crimes. A few people even came out of their shops to watch him pass by, muttering their disapproval of Stephen’s presence in their law-abiding town. As they neared the bridge over the castle ditch, a curious young couple ceased their hand-holding and rose from their trysting place at the base of a tall beech tree growing out of the side of the ditch in a spot where no tree should be allowed to remain; proper ditches were to be kept clear. Its top reached higher than the castle wall and any enterprising boy could look down into the bailey from its branches.

  The captors gave the lovers little time to stare. They pushed Stephen across the wooden bridge into the bailey and then to the hall. It was gloomy inside. The escort propelled Stephen straight across the floor to a collection of people seated by the hearth.