Baynard's List (A Stephen Attebrook mystery Book 2)

by Jason Vail

  Baynard’s List

  Jason Vail

  BANYARD’S LIST

  Copyright 2011, by Jason Vail

  All rights reserved, including the right to reproduce this book or portions thereof in any form.

  A Hawk Publishing book.

  Cover illustration copyright Can Stock Photo Inc.

  ISBN-13: 978-1463623166

  ISBN-10: 146362316X

  Hawk Publishing

  Tallahassee, FL 32312

  Baynard’s List

  Ludlow

  Ludlow

  England

  October 1262

  Chapter 1

  “If you expect me to save you from the gallows, you must tell me everything. Do you understand? Everything!”

  Ademar de Valence, justice to his Grace Henry, the third of his name, king of England and recently returned to power, regarded the felon slumped before him. They were in one of the gaol cells at Ludlow castle, a large commodious fortress on the border with that wild country inhabited by the unruly Welsh.

  The room itself was a filthy sty tucked against the east wall of the outer bailey beside the stables. It stank of feces, piss and wet soil. Flies swarmed about in the late October air. The prisoner sat cross-legged on the bare ground, connected to an iron ring in the wall by a metal leash and collar. He was a big man with huge shoulders and a thick neck. He wore expensive looking hose and a stylish black coat. The clothes were soiled and torn, but no one had yet relieved the coat of its silver buttons and he had a large silver signet ring for sealing letters on his right index finger, which gave evidence that he had some education, odd in so obvious a ruffian. Outside, strutting around on the street, he had presented an imposing figure, but here, chained to the wall, he looked rather more like a whipped St. Bernard. Valence felt a momentary stab of pity for him. Perhaps it was the fellow’s resemblance to a dog. Valence was fond of dogs.

  The man, whose name was Clement, nodded mutely. From the look on his face, Valence expected Clement to throw himself prostrate and plead for his life. Valence wouldn’t have minded that bit of desperation; normally he had no use for pleading, but he wanted Clement firmly in his grip.

  Valence said, “So — you killed him, that poor carter.”A carter named Patrick had been stabbed to death a month ago at a tavern across the River Teme. Clement stood accused of the murder based on some thin evidence and clever deduction.

  For a moment, it appeared that Clement would not confess, that perhaps he had some spine after all. But then he muttered, “Yessir.”

  “Impressive, most impressive,” Valence murmured reluctantly, fingering his chin.

  Clement gaped. “Sir? It is?”

  Valence was insulted the wretch had spoken. “No, you idiot, not that you killed him. That you were caught. By God’s blood you should have got away with it.” Valence had no sympathy for murderers, but he reserved special contempt for failures.

  “Yessir.”

  “Hardly a shred of evidence connecting you . . .” Valence said thoughtfully.

  “No shred, sir, no shred at all. Weren’t no evidence. We were careful.”

  Valence nodded in understanding if not approval. According to the gossips, Clement’s master, Ancelin Baynard, had a bastard daughter. The carter had attempted to arrange a marriage between his son and the daughter. Baynard had objected. A quarrel had erupted between them, and at Baynard’s behest, Clement killed the carter. It was a sordid and small affair, one he would not ordinarily give more than five minutes attention. Something else had brought Valence here, something Clement had mentioned in his secret letter to the justice. For Baynard had been rather more than a prosperous draper. He had, in fact, been an intelligencer for the crown, whose task was to gather information about supporters of the faction of barons opposing the king. Valence said briskly, “Now, as to the list, tell me about that.”

  Clement’s tongue flicked over his lips. “Well, it’s two lists, really. Master Baynard kept one showing all the king’s men in the area, those who had pledged loyalty, especially those who’d done so in secret.”

  “In secret?” Valence murmured, unable to conceal his eagerness to hear more. There was a war brewing in England. Most people weren’t aware of it, but it had already broken out beneath the skin of ordinary existence. It was a shadowy war at present, fought by the spies and agents of the antagonists. On the one hand was the king and his party, which were united behind that feckless, weak, and indecisive man by the promise of the gain that always showered from the fingers of the grateful monarch. On the other were mostly petty barons, merchants and townsfolk who dominated this blithering new assembly called Parliament, who saw corruption and misrule when they gazed toward Westminster, and who had the temerity to wish for something better. They would have been nothing, these opponents of the royal will, except for Simon de Montfort. An earl and the king’s brother-in-law, Montfort was an odd partisan for reform, but the king’s jealousy and mishandling of a trivial dispute over the dowery of Montfort’s wife had driven him into the arms of men who would put shackles of restraint on God’s anointed sovereign. What folly to risk a throne over a sister’s dowery. But Henry’s judgment had always led him to be generous with those he should not and parsimonious with those he should cultivate.

  Valence knew about this shadow war, of course, but he was not privy to it. He was not sure why. He regarded himself as a man of ability who had much to contribute to the king’s cause. That he had been overlooked or ignored rankled his pride.

  But opportunity had fallen into his lap. The identity of the master spy in the west of England had been revealed to him — who would have thought it was a mere draper like Anselin Baynard. Moreover, Baynard himself was dead, murdered in revenge by the carter’s son. That left an important scrap of parchment on the loose. If it fell into the wrong hands great damage could be done to the king’s interests.

  “Yes, sir,” Clement said. “Some of them were well placed to inform on Montfort’s people. He said they were not to be exposed to danger.”

  “But he listed them.”

  “To keep track of how much we — he — paid them for their services.”

  “He had to pay men to secure their loyalty?”

  “Well, they were in the king’s employ, or that’s how he characterized it. And they had expenses, you see.”

  “Hmm. I should like to see those accounts. Money wasted probably. There always is. And what of the other list?”

  “It contained the names of the men he had determined joined the barons’ party.”

  “I take it these loyalties were not publicly known either.”

  “Some were, most weren’t.”

  “Where would the list be?”

  “Master Baynard kept it in his writing box.”

  “Just like that? A valuable list whose exposure could lead to the deaths of men? Slapped into a writing box?”

  “Well, he kept it locked.” Clement’s face darkened and for an instant a frightened expression passed over it.

  “What?” Valence said.

  “Sir?”

  “What was that look for?”

  “Someone got into the box.”

  Valence was alarmed. “Who?”

  “That deputy coroner,” Clement said with some venom. “Attebrook.” It was understandable that Clement might bear some hard feelings for Stephen Attebrook. It was Attebrook whose investigation had identified Clement as the carter’s murderer. Had it not been for Stephen Attebrook, Clement would not have been rotting in this stink of a gaol awaiting trial for murder.

  “How do you know this?” Valence asked.

  “He g
ot inside the writing box during his inquiry into . . . the carter’s death. There was a note sent to Master Baynard by the carter’s boy to lure him out of the house to his death. Attebrook was looking for that.”

  “Attebrook didn’t take the list?” Valence said, trying to conceal his anxiety.

  “No. It was still there when I looked.”

  Valence relaxed somewhat. “How did he get into the box if it was locked?”

  “I don’t know. I expect he picked the lock. He’s a clever one. And if it wasn’t him, it was his clerk, Gilbert.”

  Valence was not relieved to hear that this precious box was not safe from casual thieves. “Where is the box?”

  “It should be in the master’s study. Was the last time I was there.”

  “I see.” Valence folded his thin, claw-like hands in thought. “That was weeks ago. Just before you were arrested.”

  “It was.”

  Valence rose abruptly from his stool. He felt suddenly as if there was not a moment to lose, although he had already wasted almost a month before appreciating the acuteness of this crisis. “Thank you, Clement. You have been most helpful.”

  Clement reached out for the hem of Valence’s scarlet, fox-trimmed robe. “You’ll help me then, sir?”

  Valence thought momentarily, and with some relish, of the consternation he could inflict by rejecting the plea. But instead, he took Clement’s hand and drew him up as far as the leash would allow. Clement had been a useful servant to Baynard, and might now be useful to him. Valence said, “I will protect you, Master Clement. But you must swear loyalty to me, and to me alone.”

  Clement nearly wept. “Thank you, sir. I will.”

  “My, you are a mess, Master Clement,” Valence said distastefully, wrinkling his nose as the two of them emerged into yellow autumn sunlight. “We shall have to get you cleaned up and presentable.”

  Clement massaged his neck where the iron ring, which he had worn for nearly a month, had left a deep raw mark. “Thank you, sir.”

  Walter Henle, the deputy sheriff in this part of Herefordshire, came hurrying toward them across the enormous outer bailey of Ludlow castle. Apparently you couldn’t keep anything secret, although how he could have found out so quickly about Clement’s release Valence could not fathom. Henle looked anxious. Valence and Clement were already striding toward the main gate. Henle fell in beside them. “M-m-my lord,” he stammered. “What’s going on? Why is that man loose?”

  “He is released on my authority,” Valence said, whose authority as a king’s circuit justice was considerable, certainly sufficient to secure the release of accused murderers. “He has been helpful to the crown, and I require his further services.”

  “But, sir, he’s a murderer.”

  “An accused murderer, Henle. And regardless if he is guilty or not, he may win a pardon for his services to the crown. That will be all,” Valence snapped.

  Henle stopped pursuing Valence, his hands flapping in dismay and his mouth working like a fish, but emitting no sound.

  Valence had already forgotten about Henle. He had other, very urgent matters on his mind. With Clement at his heels, he passed through the narrow main gate into High Street, a broad thoroughfare that ran almost two hundred yards along the top of the ridge that formed the spine of the town, narrowing only when it reached Broad Street and the parish church, St. Laurence’s. He marched as fast as he could go, and as he was a tall and very thin, man, his strides were long, and he was capable of surprising speed. Clement nearly had to jog on his shorter legs to keep up with him.

  High Street was nearly deserted, this being the middle of a non-market day, but the sight of Valence hurrying at top speed was so unusual that those who were about did not fail to pause to watch this strange procession. When he came abreast of the goldsmith Leofwine Wattepas’ house at the corner with Mill Street, his mob of apprentices stopped work to gape through the open windows. Valence could hear Wattepas’ annoyed voice ordering them back to work. Valence nodded a good day to Wattepas, who was dimly visible inside, without breaking stride.

  Where Broad Street met High, there was a narrow lane to the left that ran straight north to a small gate in the town wall. Valence swooped round the corner into that lane, his robes billowing about his skinny legs, looking like a crow making a sharp turn. A crowd of boys emerging from the church school to take their dinners scattered like quail at his approach and the thunderous look on his face, although schoolboys were not known for their tendency to respect their elders when assembled in one of their packs. But the urgency on Valence’s face, the obvious wealth reflected in his clothes, and the thickset ruffian at his heels must have persuaded the boys that this was one man they did not want to ruffle.

  Baynard’s house was the last on the left before the wall. It was a big house as befitted a wealthy merchant, for Baynard in life had been one of the town’s leading drapers, a man so rich that he held not one but three houses in the town. This was the house he had lived in, a three-story mansion, the ground floor walls made of stone, capped with three timber and plaster upper stories.

  Valence did not knock on the door. He stood aside, an indication for Clement, who lived here, to hold it for him. Clement was a moment taking the hint, but he got it soon enough.

  Valence entered as briskly as he had charged down High Street, passing two large rooms at the front which in an ordinary merchant’s house would have contained the shop, but here were fitted out as a cloak room and sitting room. Beyond was the great hall, which stretched nearly the length of the house, concluding at a massive fireplace so large that two men could have lain in it head to foot. To the right was another, not quite so massive, fireplace which would have served well by itself in any other house. The floor was made of wood, not the customary dirt, and the interior timbers were painted blue, red and yellow. Green glass in the windows imparted a rather sickly hue to the whole. Valence was annoyed at the richness of the setting. It mocked his own circumstances. He was a cousin to William de Valence, earl of Pembroke, and had taken William’s name. As a Valence, he had been awarded estates when he came to England, but they were not as fine as he expected. He hated merchants like Baynard who had more than he.

  A wiry man with a thick mop of graying black hair hurried across the hall to meet them. His astonishment at the intrusion was plain. His eyes darted from Valence to Clement and back again. He managed to get out, “My lord —”

  But Valence interrupted him. “Where is the library?”

  The wiry man blinked and pointed above and behind Valence. Valence turned and saw he was indicating a corner room on the second floor overlooking the street. “Thank you,” Valence said, and swept toward the stairway, which descended by the huge stone fireplace.

  “Clement,” the wiry man said as he fell in behind the pair, “what’s going on?”

  “I’ll explain later, William,” Clement said nastily. “Get out of the way and shut up.”

  “Oh, dear.”

  The path to the library led along a catwalk overlooking the hall, for the interior space rose to the roof. Valence’s footsteps echoed in the hall like little claps of thunder. Servants had come out of the rear of the house at the commotion and were staring at him, and the rustle of whispers reached Valence’s ears as he halted momentarily at the library door. He put his hand on the latch, lifted it, and went in.

  The library was a small corner room, about eight feet by ten, and well lighted by windows overlooking the street and the side yard. It was sparsely furnished. There was a shelf full of a dozen or so books and a table. On the table was the writing box, a slanted piece of polished wood on which one did the writing, supported by panels to form the box. Valence put his hands on the lid and lifted. It was locked. That was good.

  “Where’s the key?” he asked.

  William gulped and shook his head.

  Clement said, “The master had the only key. It should be with his things.”

  “Well, fetch it, then,” Valence said im
patiently.

  Clement hurried out.

  The other fellow, that man William, lingered in the doorway. He had an anxious way of looking at his feet and then out the window, and back again. Valence was used to anxiety in servants, so he took no special notice.

  “Who are you?” Valence asked.

  “Muryet,” he said. “William Muryet. I’m the butler, and I also act as my lady’s chamberlain.”

  Valence suppressed a snort at Muryet’s reference to the woman of the house as a lady. That term only belonged to women of the gentry. Olivia Baynard had been gentry once, but she had lost her inheritance when her brother was executed for embezzling crown funds. Destitute and desperate, she had married this merchant. As far as Valence was concerned, such a marriage took her out of the gentry and forfeited her right to call herself a lady. He snapped, “Then do what good butlers and chamberlains do. Be hospitable.”

  “Yessir. I’ll bring some wine, sir. Right away, sir.” Muryet backed out and disappeared.

  Good. That got rid of the man. Valence could hear the hurried thuds of his feet as he hastened away.

  Valence sat down at the table. From this vantage point, he could see up College Lane to St. Laurence’s church. The street was deserted, except for a cat doing its business by the churchyard gate. A dog emerged from an alley a short distance away and saw the cat. It let out a happy yip and went to investigate the cat. This cat was no friend of dogs. It arched its back and hissed. The dog broke into a lope, and the cat ran away. Valence hoped the dog caught the cat and tore it to pieces. He hated cats.

  Clement reappeared and held out a small bronze key. “There you go, sir.”

  “Out of the way,” Valence said. He put the key in the lock. It fit perfectly. The lock yielded with a snap. Feeling the breath coming quicker in his throat, Valence slowly lifted the lid to the box. Once he had the list in his possession, he would report this feat to Westminster, which would be grateful and certainly would reward him handsomely for his enterprise in protecting the king’s interests. Valence would propose himself as Baynard’s replacement, not to manage the dirty, day-to-day business of spying himself, but as a suitable watchman over the master spy and keeper of the king’s business in these parts who would take all the credit — and garner the rewards — for the spy’s work.