by Jason Vail
“No,” Brandone said slowly. “Somebody could have picked it up.”
“Which means that the boy who found the body wasn’t the first finder after all,” Stephen said.
“Well,” Brandone said, “if I stole from a dead man, I’d not say I’d been there.”
“Fair enough,” Stephen said.
“I’m for taking a vote,” the red-faced Thomas said abruptly. “I’ve got work to do and we’re just wasting time here. It’s obvious what happened.”
There was a murmur of agreement.
“What did happen?” Stephen asked.
“He fell down the stairs and broke his damned fool neck,” Thomas said. “That’s what happened.”
“But what was he doing up the stairs?” Stephen asked.
“Who knows and who cares?” Thomas said. “Meeting some trollop in secret, most likely. Webbere didn’t give details about the room because she’s been renting it to whores.”
“Are you sure about that?”
Surprisingly, there were a few nods. If Thomas held some grudge against Helen Webbere, he wasn’t the only one who had doubts about her character.
Stephen glanced for support at Gilbert, who looked up from his knitted fingers and shrugged slightly. He didn’t sense that Gilbert agreed with Thomas, but he didn’t disagree so strongly that he felt compelled to say anything. Besides, it wasn’t Gilbert’s place to voice his opinions at an inquest, only to take down the conclusion.
“Isn’t it a bit odd,” Stephen said slowly, “that the only marks of any real substance on his body were on his face? Shouldn’t a fall down the stairs have left bruises all over him? And scrapes? Yet he had none that I could see.”
“Doesn’t seem odd to me,” Thomas said. “Dead men don’t bruise. That’s nonsense.”
There was a murmur of agreement. Stephen could fairly smell the impatience. They had already made up their minds. There was nothing he could say that would change them.
“All right, then,” Stephen said with some reluctance. “All in favor of death by misadventure?”
The chorus of ayes was loud; from almost every mouth.
“Any nays?” Stephen said.
There was silence. If there were any dissenters who had held back before, they were not speaking up.
“Is there a verdict as to cause?”
“The loose step,” Brandone said.
“Do we agree on that?” Stephen asked.
Heads nodded all around.
Stephen glanced at Gilbert, who did not meet his eye. Gilbert seemed inordinately interested in a thread that had come loose from his sleeve.
“How much for the step?” Stephen asked. It was the law that the value of the instrument causing the death had to be assessed as a fine to the king.
“Aw,” Thomas said, “I wouldn’t give an eighth of a penny for it.”
“What about the nails?” Stephen said with a slight smile. “Make it a quarter penny.” Like it or not, it was his duty to try to persuade the jury to make the fine as large as possible.
“Weren’t the nails’ fault,” Thomas said. “The board was plain rotten, and that’s the end of it.”
That was the end of the discussion. The deodand would be no more than an eighth of a penny. Stephen could hear Walter Henle’s snort at such a ridiculous fine. But the assessment was the duty of the jury, and they were often lenient.
With no more business to conduct, the jurymen rose and hurried through the castle gate back to their shops. There were still hours of light left, and no one wanted to waste any more time.
Stephen and Gilbert remained on the bench. Although the air had a snap to it, the breeze had died, the sunlight was warm, and it was pleasant. Stephen felt heavy and didn’t want to move.
“Why won’t people see sense?” Stephen asked.
“It’s a small town,” Gilbert sighed. “People don’t like to think that their neighbors would do murder. Besides, Muryet was unpopular. Some might secretly think he deserved what he got, and so aren’t in a mood to point fingers.”
“So you agree? It was not an accident?”
Gilbert was quiet for a time. “I said before, I don’t know.”
Stephen had a sharp retort on the tip of his tongue but it died there, killed by the sight of a party of horsemen who had just passed through the narrow main gate of the castle. Gilbert saw his startled expression and turned to see what had captured Stephen’s attention.
“I’ll be damned,” Gilbert murmured. “No wonder the gaol was empty. And to imagine I never gave it a thought.”
At the head of the party rode Ademar de Valence, the king’s justice, his fox-trimmed robe billowing about his twig-like legs. Behind rode Clement, the deceased Ancelin Baynard’s former bailiff, who by rights should have been in the cell where Muryet lay, awaiting trial and execution for murder.
But that was not all.
“I hadn’t heard that Clement had a son,” Gilbert said, for Clement held a small child, a black-haired boy of no more than two, in his arms. When Clement’s eyes fell on Stephen there on the bench, they lighted up and a nasty smile creased his square face.
“He isn’t Clement’s son,” Stephen said. “He’s mine.”
Chapter 4
Ademar de Valence poised the child on his lap. He gazed over the boy’s dark head to Stephen Attebrook, who sat on the edge of his chair opposite the judge. It took every ounce of Stephen’s self-control to appear unconcerned and not to rush across the gap and seize Christopher. For a moment, he seriously considered taking action. He might actually manage to get away in the public commotion it would cause here in the castle’s great hall, which was busy with people — a circle of ladies holding their sewing circle a short distance away before the great hearth; a group of merchants from the town who had come with some petition for Henle, the sheriff’s representative; a swirl of young boys playing tag in a far corner; and servants setting up the tables for dinner. But he abandoned the idea. Clement was close by, as were more than half a dozen soldiers, who were lounging around as if they had nothing better to do. They would surely intervene if Stephen put up a struggle and he couldn’t fight them all. Valence had him in his grip again after so many years, and Stephen felt as helpless in Valence’s presence as he had as a boy.
Valence smiled. He couldn’t help looking smug and self-satisfied. He patted the child’s head with false affection, absently, as one would pat a dog.
Christopher, who never sat still for long, began to squirm, eager to be down on the floor. Valence motioned for Clement to take the boy. Clement was no more eager to hold him than Valence had been, and passed him off to his nurse, Gunnora. She knew how to deal with children if Valence and Clement did not. She grasped Christopher firmly by the hand and led him outside. Stephen forced himself not to watch them go.
“Have you been well, Stephen?” Valence said with studied laziness.
“Yes, your honor.”
“Good, good,” Valence said in a tone that indicated he didn’t care. “What, may I ask, were you doing in the gaol?”
“Investigating a death.”
“Oh? Whose?”
“William Muryet’s.”
Valence frowned at the mention of the name. Stephen had the distinct impression Valence had heard it before, but just in case he had not Stephen added, “He was the butler to Olivia Baynard, Anselin Baynard’s widow.”
“I know that,” Valence said testily. He hated giving the impression of not knowing things or being reminded of things he already knew. “What happened?”
“The jury think he got drunk and fell down a flight of stairs and broke his neck.”
“Odd,” Valence said. “So odd.” Then he said briskly, “Such a distasteful little man. He won’t be missed, I’m sure.”
“What’s odd about his death?”
“Well, it is the merest coincidence,” Valence replied, steepling his long, beringed fingers. “But it seems that something important has gone missing from the Baynard Hou
se — something of great importance to the crown.”
Stephen suddenly felt chillier than warranted by the drafts ever present in the hall. “What would that be?”
“Stephen, you have many faults, but sheer stupidity is not among them. I think you know.”
Stephen glanced at Clement, who was gazing hard into the fire, which had burned low on the hearth in the center of the hall and needed another log. “I’m not your apprentice any more, and I won’t play your guessing games. You want something. What is it?”
Valence clutched the arms of the chair and leaned forward, eyes flashing. When he got angry like this, Stephen and his fellow apprentice James de Kerseye had joked that his eyes would pop out of his head. But his eyes did not pop out; the glare receded. Valence said with dangerous calm, “I see. To confess knowledge is to confess your own theft. That’s understandable. Well, let me just say this. There was a certain document among Baynard’s things, a list of names and accounts. This list has disappeared. I want it back. It seems you’ve developed a skill at ferreting out secrets. I want you to ferret this one. I know you’ve seen it, so you won’t be duped by some forgery. Get me that list.”
Stephen’s chill deepened. “What if it can’t be got?”
“I am certain you will exhaust every avenue of inquiry. You’ll find it.” Valence paused then said, “In the meantime, I have taken your son under my protection.”
“He was fine where he was.”
“With all due respect to your cousin the earl, the boy will turn into a country bumpkin like yourself if he remains at Shelburgh. You can’t actually imagine that Eustace really would lavish money or attention on your bastard, can you? Bastards always get the crumbs and the bastards of poor relatives get the smallest crumbs of all. In my household, he will have access to the best that English society has to offer. If I have your cooperation, of course.”
“Naturally.”
“Good, then. We understand each other. Well, don’t just sit there. Get to work! Time is wasting.”
When Stephen had left the hall, Clement fetched a cup of wine for Valence. He knelt as he handed the cup and leaned close. The hall was crowded and he did not want to be overheard.
“My lord,” said Clement, “would you really bring up the pup almost as if he was your son?”
Valence accepted the cup and swirled the contents, as if he was an alchemist inspecting his brew. “I am a firm believer that rewards are more effective than punishments in motivating men.” He fixed his eyes on Clement. “Including men such as yourself.”
“Yes, my lord.”
Valence sipped his wine. “Besides, I’ll be spared the expense in the end. When he’s done his little chore, he will demand the boy back. He has this grudge against me, you see. He was a wild ungovernable boy with a passionate nature. When, as was my duty, I tried to impose a small measure of discipline, he rebelled. As you could see on his face he has not forgotten what passed between us. So I shall give the odious child up — a small price to pay for so valuable a thing, don’t you think?”
“What if he fails?”
“Ah, now there is a rub. How can I punish him? For after all, one must punish failure in some way. What shall I do?”
“You could give the child to me.”
Valence smiled thinly. “Don’t imagine I haven’t thought of that.”
“It never occurred to me you had not, my lord.”
“You’d like that, wouldn’t you.”
“Yes, my lord.”
“We shall see, Clement. We shall see.” He added, “You would take good care of him, if I did?”
“Of course, my lord.”
“I’m glad to hear that.”
Clement added probingly, “But still, my lord, children die all the time. Fevers and fluxes and such. Accidents.”
“It would be a pity.”
Clement nodded solemnly. “It would, sir.”
Valence smiled. “I knew you would be useful, Clement. As I’ve said, show me loyalty and you will go far. We shall have much work to do.”
“I’m your man, my lord. I said so.”
“Good, good.”
Stephen was trembling when he emerged from the great hall. Gilbert was waiting for him by the gate to the outer bailey, which ran through the base of the castle’s inner wall beside the old keep, a great square tower. Stephen struggled to get himself under control as he crossed the inner bailey. The look on his face caused Gilbert to be alarmed.
“What happened in there?” Gilbert asked anxiously as he hurried through the gate after Stephen. Stephen’s legs were so much longer than his and his pace so rapid that Gilbert had to jog to keep up. If Stephen wasn’t so angry, he’d have thought the sight was comical. Few things were as amusing as Gilbert running, unless it was Gilbert trying to ride a mule.
“Baynard’s list is missing,” Stephen spat. “Valence wants me to find it. He holds Christopher as a hostage for my good behavior.”
“Oh, dear.”
“My bastard of a cousin. He gave Christopher over.” Stephen wasn’t sure what angered him more at this instant: his cousin’s betrayal or Valence’s veiled threat. He hadn’t actually promised to harm Christopher, but the threat had been here, if he failed. He had sensed it like a rotten smell.
“Your cousin?”
“I returned from Spain after —” Stephen’s voice faltered ever so slightly. He almost mentioned the death of the boy’s mother, Taresa, but he had never spoken of that to anyone in England. The pain of her loss was so great he could barely think her name, let alone say it aloud. “— to place my boy with Eustace. I don’t have the means to raise him, and I wanted him to have a start in life, I wanted him raised English in my family, not on the streets of some miserable Spanish town. Eustace promised to take care of him.”
“Perhaps Eustace didn’t have a choice. Valence is a powerful man with powerful friends.”
“So he is,” Stephen snarled. “But that’s no reason to betray family. Family comes first, or it’s supposed to.”
“Politics, it’s politics,” Gilbert said, gasping for breath. “Politics and money often trump family loyalty. I say, would you mind slowing down? I can hardly keep up.”
Stephen stopped so abruptly that Gilbert had to put out his hands to keep from running into him.
“That better?” Stephen said.
Gilbert panted, “Thanks so much. I haven’t run so far since I was a boy. I thought my heart would stop.”
They were more than halfway across the vast outer bailey. The gaol, with its gaping door, lay no more than forty yards away. Gilbert saw Stephen looking at it. For a moment they both stared at the open door. A whitish object was just visible there, a portion of Muryet’s corpse.
“Muryet,” Stephen said grimly. “I’ll wager whoever killed him did so over the list. We find Muryet’s killer and we find the list.”
Gilbert looked skeptical. “Stephen, let’s not be hasty. Even if it was murder — a long if — it could simply be a coincidence.”
“Do you really believe that?”
“I don’t know. The world is full of mysteries. Not all are capable of solution.” Gilbert sighed and scuffed the ground with his toe. He looked up and squinted against the sun. “All right. I’ll take your wager. A kettle of Edith’s mutton pie.”
“Done.” Stephen grinned without humor and stepped lively toward the main gate. “And don’t go thinking I’ll share any of it with you, either.”
Chapter 5
Saturday the twenty-first dawned cold and rainy. A light drizzle filtered from gray clouds that pressed down on the hilltop town like the palm of God’s hand. Stephen, who normally threw open the shutters first thing, parted them only a crack, and shivered with the chill wet wind that hissed through that little space while he took his bath from the bowl by the window. He washed his face and hands, arms and legs, chest and back, with the soapy rag, rinsed, and toweled off. By the time he was done, his teeth were chattering. He had only been back in
England about two months and after nine years in Spain, he wasn’t used to the cold. He figured he would get his fill of English chill this coming winter. He was glad to be home, but not for the weather.
He turned from the window and struggled quickly into his clothes: linen undershirt and drawers, woolen tunic, and wool breeches. They were made of thick English wool raised right outside town and woven here on a loom whose home he could have seen if he opened the shutters only a little wider. He felt better now. He wished people in England had some means of heating their houses better, or that he had a fireplace. But this was a servant’s room, tucked into the top floor at the back of the house, and did not rate such a luxury.
Properly armored against the English autumn, he let one shutter open and perched on the sill to think. He liked the scene that lay below the window. The inn lay about halfway up the ridge that formed the backbone of the town, and from this height, he had a good view of the southern part of Ludlow. Its houses ran down the hillside, peaked rooftop after rooftop, to the River Teme, just visible over the town wall. On the other side of the river, lay the suburb of Ludford, the tower of its little parish church cloaked in a rainy mist surrounded by its screen of elms, which had lost all their leaves. The countryside beyond was a patchwork of greens, yellows, and browns. Although today, there was something odd about the tableau. He could not put his finger on exactly what it was. Something was out of order; something not quite right.
It was a melancholy morning, the sort of morning where you’d like to draw near the fire with your ale pot on your knee, if like Stephen you had no regular job to do. He did not want to go out in this wet, but he had to. He had to do something. There was no point in wasting the day. The thought of Christopher in Valence’s grip was too infuriating and frightening to sit around swilling ale and feeling sorry for himself. The problem was, he had no idea what to do. Although he firmly believed that all the signs pointed to murder in Muryet’s death, there was nothing that indicated who had done it or why. Despite his confident wager with Gilbert, he knew nothing that clearly pointed to Muryet’s involvement in the disappearance of the list. All he had was hasty supposition and inference.
