Bad Money (A Stephen Attebrook mystery Book 6)

by Jason Vail

  “My lord,” the leader said, “we apprehended this fellow in the town asking after Henry. Claims to be an archer, but I have my doubts. There’s something fishy going on, and I thought you should know about it.”

  One of the figures in the gloom turned in Stephen’s direction.

  “I’ll say there’s something fishy going on,” Nigel FitzSimmons said. His mouth opened to say more, but he hesitated. Expressions of irritation, dismay and finally satisfaction played across FitzSimmons’ face. “I never liked Henry’s idea. I should have listened to your advice,” he said to the woman at his side.

  “Good afternoon, Lady Margaret,” Stephen said to Margaret de Thottenham. “What are you doing here?”

  “My duty,” Margaret said. “As I warned Nigel you could be expected to do as well.”

  “Yes, you warned me he might turn up here,” FitzSimmons sighed.

  “It’s not the first time you’ve disregarded my advice,” Margaret replied to FitzSimmons.

  “What has become of Henry and his boys?” FitzSimmons asked.

  “They met with an accident,” Stephen said.

  The expression of irritation, now mixed with anger, returned. “I take from that they are dead.”

  Stephen shrugged.

  “Damn it!” FitzSimmons snapped at no one in particular. “I warned him to be careful.” He got control of himself again and asked, “How did you manage it? All by yourself?”

  “I’ll not give away my secrets any more than you will yours,” Stephen said. “What makes you think I don’t have the sheriff in on this?”

  “Because you wouldn’t be here alone if you did,” FitzSimmons said. “Besides, you wouldn’t want the sheriff to know about the details of our deal.” He glanced at Margaret. “I know you must have the dies. What did you do with them?”

  “I never had them. It was a trick to recover Gilbert.”

  “How is poor Gilbert?” Margaret asked.

  “Roughly handled, but fine otherwise.”

  “I am glad to hear that,” she said.

  “I’ll let him know,” Stephen said.

  “What will you do with Stephen?” Margaret asked FitzSimmons.

  “Well, we can’t very well let him walk around loose. He’s caused us enough trouble already, and as we are almost ready we cannot afford the slightest interruption,” FitzSimmons said. “Pity we don’t have a proper gaol. You’re acquainted with gaols already, I’ve heard. But I have just the thing.” He turned to the leader of the soldiers. “Put him in the barn.”

  The leader grabbed Stephen’s collar and yanked him toward the door.

  “I don’t want him hurt,” Stephen heard Margaret say as he crossed the threshold.

  “Not to worry,” Nigel said as the door closed. “Now, let’s get back to business. There is much yet to be done.”

  The soldiers chained Stephen to a post at one end of the barn.

  “Why no gaol here, anyway?” Stephen asked as his escorts clamped on the collar. He would have welcomed imprisonment in a proper gaol, where he could lie down without a chain or collar.

  “Haven’t had much need for one since the tower fell down,” the leader replied. “But don’t worry. You’ll be wretched enough here before long.”

  “Do you think you could find me a pot to piss in, at least?”

  “Most folks dig a hole. Try that.”

  “I am not the sort for getting my hands dirty.”

  “Ah, well, suit yourself. Just don’t complain when you roll in your own shit while you’re asleep.”

  “I’ll be careful. When is supper?”

  “For you? Next week, I imagine.”

  Stephen made himself as comfortable as one can shackled to three feet of chain, and settled down against his post for the coming of the night. He should have asked for a blanket as well as a piss pot, but the response probably would have been the same in any case.

  Night fell. The interior of the barn grew chilly. The sounds of voices carried from the hall, men and women laughing, a tune being played and then sung. At least people were enjoying themselves. Stephen was not. The chain did not stretch far enough for him to lie down, a common fault of gaol chains. There was nothing like being personally subjected to an injustice to appreciate it for what it was. Soon Stephen was shivering and hugging his legs.

  Wind rattled the roof and the walls creaked. The patter of feet was audible nearby and something swift darted across Stephen’s outstretched legs. He had the horrified realization that the feet he heard about him belonged to rats. He had heard once of a child being killed when rats got into her crib and chewed off her face. The prospect of such a thing happening to him filled him with dread.

  Stephen heard the barn door open and close, and the shuffling sound of someone trying to make his way along in the dark. The shuffling got closer. Someone said, “Sir Stephen, where are you exactly?”

  “Not much farther on, Walter,” Stephen said, recognizing the voice of one of Lady Margaret’s bodyguards.

  “Thanks.” Walter reached Stephen and knelt down. “My lady sends her apologies.”

  “For what? For deceiving me?”

  “It is the game. Didn’t you deceive her? In any case, she is sorry also for your present predicament.”

  “I have a feeling that there is more in store for me than being chained to a post.”

  “I am afraid that’s true. We overheard earlier this evening that FitzSimmons plans to have you killed. You attempted escape, or something, and unfortunately, the guards were a bit too zealous in their efforts to recapture you.”

  “When is this supposed to happen?”

  “Toward dawn. When everyone is fast asleep.”

  “How unthoughtful not to wake her up for a murder. Such things are so entertaining.”

  “He doesn’t want Lady Margaret to be more upset than necessary.”

  “I see I have not given FitzSimmons enough credit. He is a caring man after all. And why are you here? To enable me to make my peace with God without being in a hurry about it?”

  “No,” Walter said. He grasped Stephen’s hand and pressed a small knife into the palm. “My lady sends you this. Although we are on opposite sides, she does not wish your death. It is the best she can do, I’m afraid. The rest you’ll have to manage for yourself. I best be going, sir. It’s not safe.”

  “No, it isn’t. Give her ladyship my thanks. And thank you, as well.”

  “There is one favor she asks.”

  “It is?”

  “That you say nothing to anyone about what you saw and heard here.”

  “That might be difficult.”

  “It could put her life in jeopardy.”

  “I see.”

  Stephen weighed the knife in his hand. “And what about the wall? What am I to do to about that?”

  “There’s a tall beech not far from the east wall. You must have seen it.”

  “What of it?”

  “How good are you at jumping?”

  “You can’t be serious.”

  “It’s the best we can do. Can’t have a rope left behind. FitzSimmons will know then that you had aid. It must look as though you got away yourself. Got to go now. Best of luck, sir.” Walter retreated to the door. It opened and closed, leaving Stephen alone with the rats.

  He wasn’t sure what use the knife might be. Walter hadn’t lingered long enough to share his thoughts on the matter. Stephen drew the short blade from its leather sheath. It was pointed and sharp, and it came to him — just the thing for chiseling out the pin securing his chain to the post.

  Chapter 22

  Stephen set to work, chipping and gouging away at the wood around the heavy iron pin. His shirt was damp and his hands were sore before he could work it free.

  He gathered the chain in his fists so that it would not make too much noise and crept to the barn door. He cracked the door and looked about the bailey. The night was clear, the stars sharp, and moonlight fell across the bailey.

  T
he question was whether there was a watch, and if so, how many men on duty. Some castles did not bother with a watch in peacetime, but this was the March, with the Welsh within a day’s ride. The appearance of one man walking a circuit on the wall answered the first question. A few minutes later another man strolled into view, answering the second.

  Stephen was considering a dash from shadow to shadow when one of the night watchmen climbed onto a crenellation and fumbled with his drawers to relieve himself over the wall: a common practice of guards not allowed the comforts of any of the towers. Stephen guessed the other man was behind the motte on the north side of the castle, which meant he could not see the bailey.

  He slipped through the door and, clutching his chain, dashed to the wall at his left, which was in moon shadow. A wooden stair led up to the wall walk here. He crouched beneath the stair, listening for the slightest sound that he had been detected.

  The guard across the way jumped back to the wall walk and resumed his stroll, coming in Stephen’s direction. Stephen waited until he had crossed overhead, while the other guard came into view.

  There would be no good time to make his move, but Stephen waited a while until the guard overhead had had a chance to move off a bit. Then he crept up the stairs.

  At the top he was in full moonlight, except for the toothy shadows cast down by the crenellations. He pressed against the wall, hiding in one of those shadow teeth, breathing hard, trying to remember where that beech tree was. He darted upright and bent outward for a look. The tree was fifteen yards or so away to the right. He scuttled toward it, keeping in the shadow. He saw the branches of the beech above his head, dark etchings against the night sky. He chanced another look between the teeth of the crenellations. It seemed impossibly far away.

  “Hey! You!” a voice called from his right: one of the night watchmen.

  Stephen had no choice now but to jump or be captured.

  He climbed to the top of the wall and gauged the distance. About ten or twelve feet separated him from the nearest branches. Footsteps pounded on the walls, approaching from left and right. Voices were raised in the gate tower.

  Stephen leaped as far into space as he could just as the ward arrived to grasp at his heels.

  He felt the wind of his passage through the air rustle his hair and hiss in his ears, chain tinkling as it writhed and tugged at his neck. His arms pin-wheeled of their own accord like the fans of a windmill and his feet raced along an invisible path in the air as if he ran across the gap rather than flew.

  His trajectory was out and down, like the flight of an arrow, and he collided with the branches lower down. One branch clouted him across the face, knocking him backward so that he lay supine in the air for a moment, then his legs hit another branch and he flipped over. His hands grasped for a purchase as he crashed through the uncertain embrace of the tree. He caught a branch and hung there for a moment, then it snapped and gave way, and he plunged the remaining distance to the ground, rolling into the ditch.

  Stephen stood up in the ditch, spending an instant to marvel that he had come through with only a battered and scraped face — the chain had not snagged to hang him, and he had no broken leg or turned ankle to hold him back now.

  He wiped blood away from a cut on his cheek and was about to run when a figure that had crouched in the shadow of a fence stood up.

  “I say,” Gilbert said, “that was ungainly. Are you all right?”

  “What are you doing here?” Stephen gasped, starting with fright and astonishment that there was anyone there and it happened to be Gilbert, the last person he expected to see lurking about in the night.

  “Waiting for you, of course. Why else would I be here? Come on. If we linger, they’ll catch us both. And I for one, have no appetite for imprisonment.”

  Stephen limped down High Street, bad foot aching with the impact of every pace. It was humiliating that he could just keep ahead of Gilbert, who waddled with unexpected speed at his heels. It must have been a funny sight, but Stephen did not take the time to enjoy it. He heard shouts from the castle and he knew there would be pursuit in moments. He thought about turning east and heading toward the hills that daylight would reveal lay in that direction. But he did not relish being chased while on foot. He had had an experience with that once before, when the pursuers had relied on hunting dogs to track him down, and he had only managed to make an escape through blind luck. He had no doubt that FitzSimmons would call out the dogs before long. He had no confidence that he could evade the pursuit this time.

  They reached the marketplace where the road grew momentarily flatter and Stephen’s bad foot landed in a rut, twisting his ankle, and he fell over. He stifled a cry and rolled to his feet. Gilbert gave him a rude push and snapped, “This is not the time to tarry!”

  “Why couldn’t you have thought to bring the horses?”

  “And alert the town watch? There is one, you know. And we might have the good fortune to run into him any moment.”

  “I’d hate that.”

  “So would I.”

  “Where did you put the horses, anyway?”

  “They’re at the stable where we left them yesterday. Now do try to keep up.”

  The dash down High Street was exhausting and miserable, an event that one day might rival in his memory the flight from Warin Pentre’s castle at Bucknell, when he had learned the identify of Rosamond, the girl found dead in the churchyard on Christmas day.

  But at last after what seemed like a mile but was probably a mere two-hundred yards, it came to an end and they stood gasping in front of the stable. Like all such establishments, the stable lay separated from the street by a high wall and a sturdy gate, which concealed a yard surrounded by buildings.

  The top of the wall and gate was too tall for Stephen to reach with a jump. Gilbert had his hands on his knees, struggling for breath, making more noise than a broken smith’s bellows. It would be minutes before he had recovered enough to provide any assistance. Stephen had begun to feel the wings of panic, for he could hear voices raised in alarm up High Street. They didn’t have moments to spare. He slammed Margaret’s little knife into a post and, using that as a step, managed to leap high enough to grasp the top even as the knife gave way. He chinned himself and slipped over. Theobald the master burglar would have been proud. He threw up the bar and let the gate open itself for Gilbert and ran across the yard.

  The interior yard was bathed in moonlight and deep shadow. He reached the stable proper, sure he would hear the voice of another watchman calling the alarm, and slipped inside.

  The stable was like any other, with stalls for the horses running left and right. He groped to the right for the fourth and fifth stalls, where they had left the horses. Gilbert had tacked them up and put his canvas bag with his gear in the fourth stall along with his sword. Stephen led the horses back to the yard, where there was yet no sign of Gilbert.

  Stephen was about to mount when a noise from behind caused him to turn his head to see a man approaching with a wood axe raised above his head to strike.

  “Just what the devil do you think you’re doing?” the fellow demanded.

  “Recovering my horses,” Stephen said.

  The stableman squinted to get a better look at Stephen’s face. “You’re the fellow who was arrested.”

  “And now I’m free. So please get out of the way.”

  “I’ll not be doing that. I’m arresting you again. Out! Out!” he began to shout, raising the hue and cry

  The stableman seemed content to threaten with the axe rather than to use it: to cause delay until help arrived. But Stephen could not afford to wait. He stepped away from the mare so as not to endanger her, then darted at the stableman. The axe-wielder cut into this attack, but Stephen pulled back outside the arc of the cut, for the rush had been a feint intended to provoke the cut. As the axe fell toward the ground, Stephen reversed course and closed with the stableman. He punched the fellow in the face as hard as he could while grasping one of the
fellow’s arms. The stableman toppled onto his back. Stephen relieved him of the axe and clouted him in the head with the end of the handle.

  “I am sorry,” Stephen said. He cast away the axe as Gilbert finally staggered into the yard, having recovered enough to manage at least that. “Hurry up!”

  “Is he dead?”

  “No, now get on your horse.”

  “Would you mind giving me a leg up? I am quite spent and it is a long way to the saddle.”

  “Very well.”

  People were tumbling from the house inhabited by the stableman as Stephen boosted Gilbert to the back of the horse.

  He leaped onto his mare, gathering the reins while fumbling to maintain a hold on his sword and the canvas bag, tugging her head toward the gate as he pressed her forward with his heels, urging her onward with his seat, the chain flapping against his back. The people from the house made no effort to close with him, owing to the sword in his hand.

  Pursuers from the castle were turning the corner from High Street when Stephen and Gilbert emerged from the stable yard. They blocked the way east, so they galloped west. It was fortunate the castle folk were on foot, because they would have caught them for sure.

  The road led westward, when he wanted to go south, and was lined on either side by houses, wicker fences or hedges. Had Stephen been alone, he would have jumped a fence, but Gilbert could hardly manage to stay on at a trot; jumping a fence was beyond him. However, they found a gate, which Stephen leaned far out of the saddle to open, and crossed the field behind a row of houses, cutting southeast until they encountered the Clun road.

  A half a mile below the town, Stephen slowed the mare to a walk to allow her to catch her breath. He expected mounted pursuit before long and she needed to be able to run hard when the need arose. With luck the pursuers would have blown their horses in an effort to catch up, while the mare would be fresh again.