by Jason Vail
“I should have taken it when I had the chance,” he said to himself. A month ago, he had been in Baynard’s library and had seen — even held — the list. It was two lists, actually, one of the king’s informers and agents and a second of those whom Baynard had identified as Montfort’s supporters, informers, and agents. He had broken into Baynard’s writing box to find something else entirely, an anonymous note that had lured Ancelin Baynard to his death from ambush just across the street from the Broken Shield. He had taken the note, and left the list. He had not wanted any part of the fight between the king and his corrupt supporters and the reformers. In fact, in his heart, he thought, from what little he knew about the dispute, that the reformers had the better argument. But he still didn’t want to take sides. He just wanted to live his life undisturbed, to savor his grief unmolested. Taresa’s death had left a yawning hole in his spirit. There was no room for the petty controversies of men.
Beneath him, the inn was stirring. He heard voices in conversation. The old wooden structure creaked and thumped as guests awoke, made their toilets, dressed, and clattered down to the hall, where Edith and Jennie would be setting out breakfast. If he didn’t go now, there’d likely be nothing left. So he pulled on his boots, stuffing a rag in the toe of the left one to take the place of his missing toes. Ducking to avoid the slanting beams of the roof, which he knew from experience could give the unwary a nasty knock on the head, he made his way across the room to the door. As an afterthought, without any consideration where he might go, he took his old blue woolen cloak from its peg, draped it over his arm and stepped out into the corridor.
The hall swirled with activity in the warm yellow light of the fire raging in the fireplace and candles placed in strategic spots in little cradles attached to posts. Although breakfast was a light meal, typically bread and cheese and left over cold meat when it was available, it was always well attended at the Shield. There must have been more than twenty people crammed into the hall, devouring the loaves and half-rounds of cheese that Jennie and Nan, another of the servant girls, scurried to pass out. Other guests were taking their leave and settling their bills at the door, where Edith presided over the coin box and scales for weighing money with the aplomb of a bishop counting his offerings. She knew what every person owed to the penny without having to write a single thing down; God knew how she kept it all straight. Gilbert was not in sight, although it was not his habit to sleep late.
Almost every space at the trestle tables was taken, even Stephen’s favorite spot between the stairway and the fire. This meant there was nowhere to sit without elbowing someone aside, and he didn’t feel up to that indignity. His pride, feeble as it was, imposed some limits, and jostling with tavern guests for space at a table was beyond them. So he intercepted a fragment of a loaf as one guest prepared to pass it to another, and scooped a half-round of cheese from Jennie’s tray as she wended her way from the larder in the rear of the building to a front table. She looked at him with mock indignation and waited until he had broken off a large piece of cheese. When he returned the half-round to her tray, she gave him a smile and moved to the waiting table, swaying her ample hips perhaps more than she should have. Certainly, her mother would not have approved had she seen it.
The door to the street was jammed, so Stephen slipped out the door to the yard. The yard held its usual bustle of early morning activity. One of the menservants was stoking the fire next to the orchard which would double for brewing ale and laundry, a boy was staggering under a load of wood for the fireplace indoors, Nan came out with a basket of dirty linens, and the door to the stables stood open and a guest’s groom was leading a pair of saddled horses into the light.
And Stephen realized what had struck him as out of sorts before.
When he had looked down at the yard, the stable doors had been closed.
Normally, Harry opened them with the crowing of the cocks. It took him a long time to crawl on his hands from his bed in the stables to his licensed begging spot at Broad Gate, and he liked to get an early start so he could be on station for the morning traffic. He worked his spot even in the rain because the gate warden let him shelter under the gate arch.
The fact the door had been closed meant Harry had not gone out. And that meant something was wrong with him.
Stephen crossed the yard to the stable and went in. The windows were all shut against the rain, and it was dark and gloomy. A wet cough sounded from the left. Horses snickered. A few stuck their heads out to look at him, perhaps anxious to be fed. Stephen had to wait a moment for his eyes to adjust, then he went left. Harry lived in the last stall. Stephen paused at the door to the stall. It was smaller than all the others and was used for storing hay. On the left side, bales were piled to the ceiling. At the right corner, Harry lay curled on a nest of hay beneath a wool blanket. He had driven pegs in the wall about three feet from the ground. His floppy wool hat, a spare shirt, and a ratty cloak hung from the pegs. The thick padded leather gloves that he wore to protect his hands were hooked over the spare shirt.
“You out carousing late last night and get caught in the wet?” Stephen asked.
Harry coughed wetly. He spat a wad of mucus and said a dirty word. “No. I was in at my proper bedtime, and tucked away like the wee child I am. You, on the other hand, fell asleep with a candle burning. Saw the light in your window. Shame on you. Trying to kill our hosts, are you?”
“I didn’t leave it burning. I couldn’t sleep.”
“The weight of all that sin you’re carrying?” Harry coughed again, and panted to catch his breath, which came in wheezy gasps.
“Sin? Man, I am guiltless.”
“Guiltlessness and sinless aren’t necessarily the same thing. The one means you just don’t feel the sin, though it’s there. Anyway, I think you’re lying. You may not be among the churchgoing, but you’re too honest not to feel your burden.”
“What do you know about William Muryet?” Stephen asked to change the subject.
Harry cocked an eye at him. “Muryet? He’s the one found dead yesterday. Broken neck, I heard.”
“That’s right.”
“Fell down a flight of stairs visiting a trollop at Webbere’s place.”
“Maybe.”
“Can’t say as I’m sorry.” He hitched his blanket higher on his shoulders. Stephen noticed that he was shivering. Harry said, “You looking to indict someone with this one too?”
“I thought I might.”
Harry chuckled. “You’ll probably have to indict half the town.”
“Brandone said something like that.”
“Yeah, he would, and he’s one of those at the front of the line.”
“Why do you say that?”
“Muryet, he was too free and easy with the dice, you know. He liked them as much as some men like their women. Used to kiss them before he threw. But they didn’t like him. He lost a lot. Left notes all over town. Brandone’s holding one. Thomas Tanner’s another he owed money.”
“Gilbert said he and Edith were owed too.”
“Oh, yeah. I forgot about them. They let him run a bill, the fools. I thought Edith had more sense. You’re about the only person in Ludlow Muryet didn’t owe money to, and that’s only because you haven’t been here long enough.”
“So how much money did he owe you?”
Harry snorted. “I’m not a gambling man. What would I have to gamble with?”
“You lie.”
“If I wasn’t so short, I’d cut your heart out.”
“You’ve wagered with me.”
“That’s different.”
“What do you mean?”
“Because I know if I won, you’d pay up. Muryet? What good’s a note to me? I can’t read. He could have put anything on it — a nursery rhyme, dirty words. Have you ever seen filthy words written down?”
Stephen shook his head.
“Wonder what they look like.” Harry was wracked by a spasm of coughing. When he finally stopped he said, “
There’s one thing odd about all this, though.”
“What?”
“I heard that Webbere wasn’t renting her room to a trollop. At least not a trollop that Muryet was visiting.”
“What do you mean?”
“Well, I heard from a lass who’s a string maker for William Brandone that the room was let to a countrywoman who holds two hides in the west.”
“How would she know that?”
“The woman bought from her, that’s why. To make her own candles.”
“Imagine, remembering such a thing.”
“Well, you’d remember it too if you lived next door and saw the man coming and going late at night.”
“Who’s to say it wasn’t Muryet?”
“The lass said it was a big burly fellow. Muryet’s the size of a bantam cock.”
“Any idea who the visitor was?”
“Sure.”
“Who then?”
“Don’t know as I’ll tell you. I don’t want to ruin anyone’s reputation. I’m not a gossipmonger.”
“Could have fooled me. You’ve got looser lips than most fishwives.”
“You’re so free with flattery. It turns my heart. Bet your lack of charm is the reason why you haven’t got a woman.”
That stung a bit, but Stephen let it pass. Stephen noticed that Harry’s eyes were fixed on the cheese in his hands. Slowly, he raised the lump and took a bite. Harry’s eyes followed the progress of the lump up and down. “Hungry, Harry?”
“No.”
“Didn’t think so.”
“A man doesn’t need but one good meal a day. You’ll get gouty, like Sir Geoff, if you keep eating so much.”
“Who was the man, Harry?”
Harry’s need got the better of his self-control. He held out his hand. Stephen gave him the cheese.
“The bread, too,” Harry said.
“I’m not sure this is worth it.”
“You’ll never know until you pay.”
Stephen gave him the bread. When their hands brushed, Stephen thought Harry’s arm was unnaturally warm. He touched Harry’s face with the back of his hand. Now he was sure Harry was running a fever. Harry threw off the hand.
“Leave off, you bastard,” Harry said. “I didn’t give you permission to touch me.”
“Sorry, Harry,” Stephen said.
There were a few moments of silence while Harry enjoyed his fee.
“Well?” Stephen said. “Who was he?”
Harry chewed and swallowed loudly. “A fellow I think you know, which is remarkable, since you have so few friends. Name of Howard Makepeese. Worked for Baynard as a groom, or something like that.”
Stephen stood up. He indeed remembered Howard Makepeese.
Harry asked anxiously, “You won’t tell anyone how I heard about this, will you? About the string lass, I mean. If it got out that she was selling on the side, Brandone will discharge her.”
“Don’t worry, Harry. I won’t say a word to anyone.”
Chapter 6
Jennie scowled at Stephen when he returned to the inn. She snatched up a broom which had been hanging from a leather strap on a post. “You’re supposed to wipe your feet when you come in,” she snapped. “Why can’t you men remember something so simple?”
Stephen blinked, taken aback. She had never spoken sharply like this to him. It was amazing how much like her mother she looked and sounded when she lost her temper. He glanced back at the way he’d come. His tracks were clearly visible on the well-swept wood floor. So, he’d made extra work for her. She was angry because if she didn’t clean up the mess, she’d feel the edge of Edith’s tongue, something nobody enjoyed.
He said, “Listen, Harry’s running a fever. It’s bad enough that he hasn’t gone out to work this morning. Could you see that he gets a bowl of hot broth later?” He gave her a quarter penny. “And don’t tell him it came from me, all right?”
Now it was Jennie’s turn to be surprised. Her fingers curled over the shard of coin. “Sure, I will.”
Stephen gave her his best smile and her own blossomed in return. He touched the brim of his hat as if she was the finest lady, which made her redden, and beat a quick retreat through the front door to Bell Lane before she had a chance to remember how much he’d dirtied up the floor.
A misty rain still fell, pricking Stephen’s cheeks, as he emerged onto Bell Lane. A few of the shops on the street had their shutters down in hopes of attracting a few customers. The shoemaker across the way could be seen sewing leather, his apprentice looking over his shoulder. The spoon and knife-maker next door had only one shutter down and voices there were raised in argument. It sounded like the wife was getting the best of it. Smoke billowed from the chimney of the glass-maker’s just beyond Mistress Bartelot’s house, and as Stephen passed the master turned from his furnace and waved in greeting. But the hopes of industry were frustrated this morning. The lane was deserted. Apart from Stephen, the only person in view was a boy Stephen recognized as one of the town pickpockets, who was sheltering against the side of a house at the corner with Broad Street. Stephen hardly gave the boy a glance.
Broad Street was as empty as Bell Lane. A rivulet was struggling to form in the center of the street. When it rained heavily, people called the street Broad Stream. During storms, the rivulet could grow to a sizeable flow. Stephen had heard stories since he was a boy about people trying to jump the stream when it was in flood and being carried all the way down the hill to Broad Gate. He had never known that actually to happen to anyone, but it was a standing joke.
The street at the top of the hill was not so deserted. There were several carts trundling along, turning the moist dirt of the street into Ludlow’s well known mud. Far down the street, a small party of horsemen was disappearing single file through the castle gate. One of the town’s matrons bustled by, the veil of her wimple billowing behind her. Three servant girls hustled to keep up. The matron nodded a curt good day to Stephen, for as a crown official he could not politely be ignored, although the severe cast of her eye suggested she would have liked to pretend he wasn’t there. He bowed courteously in return, although as the wife of a tradesman she did not rate it. Sir Geoff had warned that the job demanded keeping on good terms with the town’s leading citizens, and that required flattering their wives. The girls looked at him and giggled. One of them winked and blew him a kiss. She was young and pretty and obviously unattached. He accepted the gesture with a smile, a spasm of desire, and a pang of regret. He wondered what her name was. But there wasn’t time or opportunity to speak to any of them.
With a sigh, he turned away toward College Lane, the narrow passage that ran north from High Street to the wall. As he passed St. Laurence’s parish church, a schoolboy who was obviously late dashed passed him and through the churchyard gate. The schoolmaster met the boy at the school door with a clout on the head.
The house he sought lay at the end of the lane by the little gate in the wall. Master Baynard had been a rich man. He had held three houses in the town. Two of them had been used as shops, their living quarters rented out to journeymen, and he had lived in this one. Now he was dead, and his widow, Olivia Baynard, occupied it as her dower portion.
Stephen reached Baynard House just as a travelers’ party rode through Linney Gate. Stephen was surprised to see Olivia Baynard at the head of the party. She was a plain-looking woman with an overlarge nose that gave her profile an unbalanced appearance. But she offset her physical deficiencies with a fine maroon gown embroidered with gold, which her traveling cloak did nothing to hide. She ignored him, turning her horse to ride through the gate to the yard of the house, followed by a retinue of grooms. But Stephen’s eyes did not linger on Olivia Baynard. They were drawn to the woman beside her: she was well, but modestly dressed in a dark green gown under a dark red cloak. The hood was up but did not conceal her face. She was one of the most beautiful women he had ever seen: skin white as alabaster, a heart-shaped face, cool eyes under thin blonde brows, a tin
y nose and bud of a mouth. The entire effect was saintly and almost childlike in its sweetness. That green gown and cloak draped elegantly over her breasts and body suggested concealed carnal treasures. Slender, ungloved fingers held the horse’s reins with easy familiarity. Unlike Mistress Baynard, this woman looked frankly, though coolly, at Stephen. He felt a blush seep into his cheeks. Then, fortunately, the party passed out of sight into the yard.
Stephen waited an interval while he caught his breath. Then he knocked on the door.
A maid answered. “Your business, sir?” she asked with the right degree of cool respect.
“I’ve come to speak with Howard Makepeese,” Stephen said.
That was not an answer she had expected. Gentry — because Stephen was obviously of the gentry by his clothes, although they were a bit shabby, and his accent — did not normally ask about servants. Her mouth fell open. But she recovered quickly. “He is no longer employed here, sir,” she said primly. “You shall have to inquire elsewhere.”
Stephen was disappointed. He had expected this to be easy. “And where would I inquire?”
“I have no idea, sir,” the maid said tartly. “I do not make it a habit of marking Howard Makepeese’s comings and goings, or to take account of his business, if it can be called that.”
Stephen smiled. “You do not approve of Makepeese?”
“He is trouble, sir. He was trouble when he was here, and I’ve no doubt he is trouble where he is now.”
“Trouble to whom?” Stephen asked.
“To young women, sir. He is a dog, a liar and untrustworthy.”
She said this with such heat that Stephen suspected that she was one Makepeese had lied to in his career. It sounded like the usual story. A man will do and say anything to charm a woman, and the woman, wanting to be charmed, will believe the lies. When the man has what he wants, on he goes, leaving the woman feeling used, soiled, hurt and bewildered, and unpregnant if she was lucky. The maid then added, “And he is a ruffian.” There was a pause and she went on in a much lower voice with a glance backward to see if she could be overheard. “Master Clement brought him into the house, if you know what I mean.”
