Bad Money (A Stephen Attebrook mystery Book 6)

by Jason Vail

  Henle was standing by the fireplace at the far end of the hall. He looked up at Stephen’s entrance and turned away from the cleric who had occupied his attention. He beckoned Stephen to approach.

  “Your man Gilbert reports that you’ve discovered the den of the counterfeiters,” Henle said.

  Stephen’s promise of silence came to mind. But that promise had not applied to Gilbert, and it appeared he had made as full a report as he could. “I think so.”

  “In Bishop’s Castle, it seems.”

  “The trail seems to lead there. It is curious. Nigel FitzSimmons is at the heart of it. I cannot say why.”

  “I’d like nothing better than to clap him in irons. We shall ride there directly and put a stop to it.”

  “But it’s outside our jurisdiction.”

  “We have an obligation to the King to take action immediately. No one will care.”

  “Well, the sheriff of Shropshire might take exception.”

  “It will be done and over before he knows of it.” Henle smiled. “And we will get the credit. We will ride first thing in the morning. Now, go get some sleep. You look terrible. Off you go. I have much to do to prepare for this expedition, and I haven’t any more time to waste with you.”

  “I don’t see why Gilbert needs to go too,” Edith said as she set a platter of sliced beef on the table for Stephen.

  “We need to find the evildoers who had me in their cellar,” Gilbert said, helping himself to some of the beef even though it was not yet dinner time and the meal had been brought out for Stephen’s benefit, a sign of Edith’s appreciation for having returned Gilbert to her. “They must be brought to justice along with the others.”

  “I’m sure Sir Stephen can find the house,” Edith said. “He’s so good at that.”

  “He’s only good at it because he has my advice,” Gilbert said with a mouthful of beef.

  “Swallow before you speak, my dear,” Edith said. “You aren’t in the monastery.”

  “We weren’t allowed to speak at all there,” Gilbert said.

  “A rule that ought to be observed here from time to time,” she replied. “We would all be better off for it.” She gathered up the platter and returned to the kitchen.

  “You’re sure you want to come?” Stephen asked.

  “I want to see the expressions on their faces when they are arrested.”

  “I did not think you were a man given to vengeance.”

  “Normally I am full of forgiveness, but I am making an exception here.”

  “It will mean another long ride.”

  “It will be in daylight, thank God. Not another night ride. I got lost twice on the way back to Ludlow. It was miserable. You cannot thank me enough for it.”

  “Well, it’s a good thing you made it back. Otherwise I’d still be in the stocks. So tell me,” Stephen asked, “there wasn’t a chance to ask on our ride, but how did you happen to be at the tree? The last I recall, you were trying to hide behind a rain barrel.”

  “That is unkind, though I did try to remain inconspicuous. I first thought of running away, but instead, I followed you to the castle gate. They wouldn’t let me in, of course, not that I tried. Lady Margaret’s man Walter saw me there. He exchanged good days, which I must say, gave me quite a fright. I expected him to call the alarm and have me arrested. But he merely asked why I had turned up in Bishop’s Castle. So I told him.”

  “All of it?”

  “No, of course not all of it. I’m not that mean spirited or daft. Just enough to make my presence plausible.”

  “That is a relief.”

  “He told me to go back to the inn. He came later with the plan. And here we are. His plan worked out splendidly, something I cannot say for yours.”

  Henle’s party consisted of four knights besides Stephen and thirty-five or so sergeants from the garrison and called up from manors about Ludlow. Forty armored horsemen made an impressive sight trotting two-by-two, so much so that many people, alerted to the spectacle as they rode through Bromfield flocked to the roadside to watch them pass. Even Gilbert’s unassuming presence and bumpy horsemanship did not mar the magnificence of the procession.

  It was a good twenty miles to Bishop’ Castle, a full day’s ride for most people, but they traveled at the army pace when unencumbered by infantry and reached it by midday.

  A forty-man troop was still reckoned by some to be an army, since many raiding parties in the borderland failed to muster that many, and the shops of Bishop’s Castle emptied as they went by, the people watching silently and with some apprehension, for no one ever expected anything good to come from a gathering of armed men.

  They passed up High Street at such a brisk pace that the castle gates were still open when they reached them, and were crossing the bridge even as the gate wardens hurriedly closed the portal.

  Henle had not expected to be shut out, and he shouted to be let in, even adding he had come in the King’s name. No one answered his summons for many moments. Then figures appeared at the top of the gate tower.

  Stephen recognized the under-constable, Martin Pico, as he called down, “What do you want?”

  “I have come for Nigel FitzSimmons!” Henle called back.

  “Whatever for?” Pico asked in response.

  “He is here?”

  Pico’s eyes wandered to Stephen as he considered his reply. “He was. He is no longer.”

  “Open the gate so I can establish this fact for myself.”

  “Have you a warrant for Sir Nigel’s arrest?”

  “I have.” And the ink had hardly dried on it, since it had been drawn up only that very morning before they had set out, issued by none other than Henle himself.

  “The last I heard you were a mere undersheriff of Herefordshire. You have no jurisdiction here.”

  “I have jurisdiction wherever the King’s business takes me. Now open the gate.”

  Pico was quiet for a moment. “Very well. I will allow you and one other in.”

  Henle’s mouth tightened. He did not like this condition. But he nodded. “Attebrook!” he said as he dismounted. “Come with me.”

  The gate cracked wide enough to admit a man on foot and the wardens pushed it shut and dropped the bar, which landed with a great thud.

  Although Stephen and Henle had their shields on their backs, they kept a hand on the pommels of their swords, for there had been nothing friendly about Pico’s reception, and given the political climate, anything might happen, most of it not good. However, there were only the wards of the gate to receive them, armed with sword, shield and spear, to be sure, but lacking mail and helmets, menacing enough to the ordinary man, but not to Stephen and Henle even if they were outnumbered.

  They waited in the bailey for several moments, then Henle struck out toward the hall just as Pico emerged from the gate tower.

  “What do you want with Sir Nigel?” Pico called to Henle’s back as he hurried to catch up.

  “They kept you in the barn, you said,” Henle said to Stephen as they reached the hall.

  “Yes.”

  Henle rounded on Pico. “Assault of a King’s officer for starters. For which I’ve a mind to arrest you as an accomplice.”

  Pico blinked. Apparently he had not expected to be vulnerable to accusation himself. “And that would be for the unfortunate events surrounding Sir Stephen’s visit?”

  “It would,” Henle snapped as he entered the hall.

  “It was a personal matter,” Pico said, “between the two of them. There is some bad blood between them, the death of one of Sir Nigel’s relatives, I’m told.”

  “And you did not interfere,” Henle said.

  “I’m afraid not. FitzSimmons is a formidable man. One is not wise to cross him.”

  “What was he doing here?”

  “I’m not sure. Paying a visit. He wasn’t here long.”

  “Hmm,” Henle said. Only servants were in the hall, so he headed for the stairs to the upper chambers. “Come alon
g, Attebrook.”

  It did not take long to search the upper chambers, including the servants’ rooms in case FitzSimmons was skulking in one of them. Then they went outside and looked into every outbuilding, down to the kitchen, smithy and barn, leaving the pig sty and cattle shed since no one of FitzSimmons’ stature could be hiding there, although those are exactly the places Stephen would have picked and for that very reason. The search of these buildings did not take long either.

  “We should question the servants,” Stephen said to Henle as they stood in the yard. “We’ll get more out of them than Pico.”

  “No need,” Henle snarled, his disappointment plain at not having caught FitzSimmons out or of having seen anything to do with a counterfeiting operation. “What could they possibly tell us?” He gestured toward the main gate. “Open up!”

  Pico looked relieved until Henle added, “We’ll pitch camp in one of the fields to the south of town. I’ll expect food and drink to be sent down to us. At your expense.”

  “Of course,” Pico said.

  “Decent food, you hear? None of the scraps meant for the pigs.”

  Henle proposed to remain the day and a night not because he thought the delay might reveal some secret that would put FitzSimmons into his hands, but out of consideration for the horses. Asking more than twenty miles in a day of them was too much except in urgent circumstances.

  Stephen and Gilbert had no tent of their own, and were forced to share one with eight of the sergeants. They sat on folding camp chairs while the sergeants put up the tent. The sergeants were pounding in the last of the pegs when a caravan of carts appeared from the town and turned into the field where they had made camp. Pico had not tarried in sending down the promised food and fodder for the horses, although the food was not cooked. However, he had sent cooks to take care of that, and they set to work building fires, hanging slabs of meat and cutting vegetables for a stew that would be ready in a few hours’ time. Meanwhile, a servant passed out loaves of fresh bread and hard boiled eggs to tide them over.

  “I would wager that FitzSimmons decamped as soon as he got back from Bishop’s Castle,” Stephen said as he tucked into his ration of bread and eggs. “The question is, what was he up to and where has he gone?”

  “Somewhere he cannot be traced, I would imagine,” Gilbert said. “That’s that, I suppose. I thought you had lost interest.”

  “If we find FitzSimmons, I may be accused of the theft of the dies. They have no proof, but an accusation itself could be my undoing.”

  “Ah, yes, I had not thought of that possibility. I’m sorry.”

  “But I would like to know — for my own sake.”

  Gilbert sighed. “I would as well.”

  “So then —there is the place where you were held. Now that we’ve come back, it makes sense to finish what we started. It wasn’t at the castle, at least you did not give me that impression.”

  “It wasn’t. I’m sure of that.”

  “But you don’t know where it was.”

  “I am afraid not. It was close by a market, though, I am fairly sure of that now. I have thought a lot about it on our rides and I believe I heard men haggling over prices — and the scent of fresh buns. And there is another thing: the cellar that was my home away from home was on the ground floor. An odd place for a cellar.”

  “Was it cold and musty?”

  “Your usual cellar.”

  “Perhaps it was dug into the side of the hill.”

  Gilbert looked thoughtful. “That could be.”

  Stephen rose from his chair. “Let’s see if we can find it.”

  “But supper will be ready soon.”

  “Supper is still several hours away. You can’t wave a wand and make water boil.”

  “No, you can’t.”

  The horses had been untacked and tethered on a line for feeding and watering, so there was nothing for it but to walk.

  High Street was no less steep this time than when they first made the climb. It went faster though because they did not stop at any of the shops to ask after Henry. So it was only a matter of minutes before they had retraced their steps to the door of the butcher shop below the peak of High Street where Stephen had been arrested. He exchanged glances with the butcher.

  “Could I interest you in a chop, sir?” the butcher called.

  “You might send a boy down to that field below town,” Stephen replied. “We’re camped there. The undersheriff might be interested.”

  “Very good, sir.” The butcher spoke to his boy who dashed into the street, pausing at the sight of Stephen.

  “Is it true, sir, that you leaped from the castle wall?” the boy asked.

  “Yes.”

  “Landed on your face, then?” the boy asked, grinning.

  Stephen felt the cut on his cheek throb. It had closed up once Edith picked out the embedded bits of bark and it only pained him when he thought about it. “I’d have broken my neck, wouldn’t I?”

  “Of course, sir.” The boy raced away downhill.

  Stephen gestured at the street that came in from the left, which was level compared to the other streets in town and joined High Street at a wide junction. “This is the market.”

  Gilbert looked around as if seeing it for the first time. “Not much room for a market.”

  “It’s a small town. There probably isn’t much to sell.”

  “Odd place for a butcher shop. Ordinarily those things are kept out of sight.”

  “Perhaps the people of Bishop’s Castle like seeing their dinners slaughtered. Some people do. Cheap entertainment.”

  “I’m not aware of any such people. It’s almost like consorting with tanners.”

  “You said you heard men haggling. Are you sure it couldn’t have been someone at a shop?”

  Gilbert pulled his lip. He closed his eyes. He opened them. “We were going down a hill, not a steep one, certainly not as steep as the one we’ve just climbed. And we weren’t that far into the town. We went right as I heard the noise. It stopped as we approached and there was murmuring.”

  “What sort of murmuring? What did they say?”

  “Just murmuring. You know, muttering of some sort.”

  “But you couldn’t make out the words?”

  “What difference would that have made? Besides, I had a sack over my head. It is hard to hear clearly with a sack over your head, not to mention the way it interferes with one’s vision. I do remember that the road was not steep. It seemed to have leveled out.”

  Stephen gestured up Market Street. “It levels out here.”

  “So it does.”

  Stephen entered Market Street. It curved gently to the right and was lined on both sides by shops and houses shoulder to shoulder so that there was no telling how far back the buildings ran and whether, on the right, they bunched against the hillside.

  They were nearing the intersection with a street that came in from the left to plunge downhill, with the market expanse out of sight behind the curve of the road when Gilbert stopped short.

  “Do you hear that?” Gilbert asked.

  “Do I hear what, your stomach growling?”

  “That tapping.”

  “I don’t hear any tapping unless it’s your guts clanking together.”

  “Here now! I’m being serious!”

  “Why should tapping matter?”

  “Because I remember now! I heard the same sound.”

  “Now or then?”

  “Then!”

  Stephen listened. He heard nothing. Then he caught the sound of faint tapping, not as if on wood, but as if on metal.

  “It’s coming from here!” Gilbert hurried to a shop a few steps ahead. Unlike the normal business in town, the shutters were closed. Gilbert pressed his ear to the shuttered window and pointed. “It’s here!”

  “All right, so you heard tapping. Then what?” Stephen asked.

  “Well, it stopped. And I was taken into a house and marched directly to that cellar I told you
about, and locked in.”

  “So you’re saying that this house was near the sound of the tapping.”

  “That’s exactly what I’m saying.”

  Stephen pounded on the door of the shop which was the source of this mysterious tapping.

  The tapping stopped. A few moments later a short bald man wearing an apron, in his hand a small hammer not unlike the sort Leofwine Wattepas, the Ludlow goldsmith, was known to use.

  “May I help you, sir?” the little bald man asked. Then he caught sight of Gilbert to Stephen’s rear. His eyes widened in shock and surprise.

  “Do you know him?” Stephen asked.

  “I-I-I-,” the bald man stammered, “I can’t say that I know him.”

  “But you’ve seen him before.”

  “Not his face. But it is hard to forget a belly like that.” The little bald man motioned with his hands, contouring a stomach that was rather larger and more impressive than the one Gilbert possessed, although it was impressive in its own right.

  “I take exception, sir,” Gilbert said. “I am not fat.”

  “Right,” Stephen said. “We do not refer to Master Wistwode as fat. He is stout. But you have seen his,” Stephen mimicked the contouring gesture, “before.”

  “Indeed I have.”

  “Under what circumstances?”

  “He was . . . shall I say, a guest in this house.”

  “That is a polite way of putting it,” Gilbert muttered.

  “And why was he a guest in your cellar?” Stephen asked.

  “Oh,” the bald man said, “it isn’t my cellar. I merely rent the shop.”

  “You don’t live behind?”

  “I could not afford the rent. It is quite a grand house and this is an exclusive district.”

  “What is your business?”

  “I am a tinsmith.”

  “A tinsmith.” Stephen considered this answer for a moment. “You wouldn’t know anything about the minting of money, would you?”

  The tinsmith looked away, eyes darting. “I have nothing to do with that!”

  “You mean, there was the minting of money going on here?”