by Jason Vail
“Ted will be furious if he found out I told you.”
“Cross my heart.”
“Soldiers don’t have hearts.”
“I’m not a soldier any more. It grew back.”
She drew back and looked into his eyes. He noticed for the first time that they were not fully green. There were little flecks of brown and blue in them. After some thought, she said, “There is a secret club. It meets here once a week, on Thursdays.” She stroked his cheek with her fingers. “The members are odd boys. There would be about twenty of them if you got them all in the same room at once, though they don’t all show on Thursdays. They come in, like this Muryet fellow, flirt with the girls down below and pretend to choose one of us. But when they get upstairs, the real choosing starts and they go off with each other. Or more often, they go to the baths together, where nobody asks any questions if two boys want to share a tub.”
“And Ted knows about this?”
“Of course. How could he not know? Very little goes on here that Ted doesn’t know about. He wouldn’t be in business long if he was that blind.”
“Twenty? As many as twenty?”
“Yeah, I think so.” She laughed. “You’ve be surprised who some of them are. One’s on the Twelve, another’s a deputy bailiff, and yet another’s on the council of the draper’s guild. Some of them are even married.”
“Good God.” The Twelve were the town’s aldermen, the main governing council. “What about the others?”
“A pretty mixed bag, some craftsmen, some laborers. A farmer or two from the country.” She frowned, worried. “You’re not thinking about doing something about this, are you?”
He sighed. He should do something, despite the promise. This kind of behavior was against the law. But it was impossible to stamp out and officialdom tended to look the other way as long as the odd boys kept their heads down and didn’t draw attention to themselves. “No. It’s none of my business.”
She looked relieved.
“Did Muryet have a favorite?”
Kate concentrated. “Well, they all went round the circle often enough, but I think there was one he preferred more than anyone else.”
Stephen waited, but she said nothing more. So he prompted her, “And his name is?”
“You really want to know?”
“I think I do.”
“If I tell you, you’ll go to him, and then it’ll get out that I let slip.”
“I’ll be as discrete as a dove’s wing. I have to know. Muryet wasn’t killed by a fall. He was murdered. Somebody, for some reason, twisted his head all the way round, like you’d wring the neck of chicken. His favorite might be able to lead me to whoever did it.”
Her mouth formed an O. “What a pleasant life you lead. Glad it isn’t mine. I hate the dead.” She shuddered. What she really meant was that she feared them, and through them death itself. She said, “All right, then. His name’s Jonathon. He’s a lay brother at St. Johns.”
St. Johns Hospital — right across the street. Stephen couldn’t help laughing. Simon, prior at St. Johns, had tried unsuccessfully to shut down the Kettle a few years ago because a few of the brothers had patronized it, violating their oaths of celibacy. The dispute had been settled when Ted had pledged not to let any of them in. “How does he manage it?”
“He comes in the back with the water boys and wood carriers. Pays Ted a little extra for his silence.”
“That gets the job done. I wonder what excuse he gives old Simon to get away.”
“You’ll find out, I’m sure.” She drilled a finger against his chest. “You have a way of worming things out of people that they don’t want to tell.”
“Worming things out? What about worming things in?”
She regarded him with narrowed eyes. “I thought you weren’t in the mood.”
“I wasn’t, but I am now. You cheered me up.”
“You dog.”
“Always. Shall I howl for you?”
“No, you’ll just frighten people.”
Stephen swung Kate around on the bed and knelt between her legs. He pulled up her gown. She had no underwear on. Her patch was as red as her hair. He lowered himself onto her.
She pushed his shoulders up. “I want to look at you while you do it,” she said. “I like to look at you.”
He closed his eyes and yielded to the moment. But the face that floated before his inner vision was not Kate’s, or even Taresa’s. It was Margaret’s.
“I thought you were looking for Howard Makepeese,” Kate said as she climbed out of bed.
“I haven’t forgotten. I was distracted.”
“You’re so easily distracted. Just like a man.”
Stephen tied up his breaches. He hadn’t noticed until now how cold it was in the room.
Kate held out her hand and beckoned with her fingers. Naturally, although they were something like friends, he wasn’t going to get away free. Stephen dumped the contents of his purse into his palm. There were only three pennies there. Kate took two.
“Talk isn’t cheap,” she said.
“It never is, is it,” Stephen said. His fingers closed around the remaining penny. It was all the money he had left. He was acutely aware how little separated him in reality from Harry’s lot. He needed to do something about that, but he wasn’t sure what.
Kate made her pennies disappear into a purse that hung on a cord between her breasts. “Being coroner doesn’t pay much.”
“Sir Geoff’s slow with my wages.” Geoffrey Randall was the king’s appointed coroner, but he suffered from gout and old age, and he seldom stirred from his manor east of Ludlow to carry out his duties. He had hired deputies for that.
She patted him on the head. “Poor boy. That’s why you don’t come more often, isn’t it.”
“What about Makepeese?”
“Oh, him. Yes, well, he lives with his mother now. She has a house in Upper Galdeford. Lives right down the street from my mum.” She put her nose to his. “Known that boy all my life. A useless dog. Tried to rut me even when I was married. Caught me in the orchard and wouldn’t take no for an answer. Arnold ran him off.” She looked momentarily wistful. Arnold had been her husband. He was dead now.
Stephen nodded and stood up. “Thanks.”
As they moved together toward the door, Kate said, “Don’t worry about Ted. I’ll settle up with him about the ales.”
“You’re an angel, Kate.”
“Of course I am. All the boys say so.”
Chapter 9
It was twilight when Stephen pulled his hood up in anticipation of the rain as he stepped outside the Wobbly Kettle. But the rain had stopped, and the clouds overhead, crawling to the east, were shredded and broken, revealing a purple sky in which one or two stars winked feebly. To the west, beyond Whitcliffe, the sun had set. It was so cold now that Stephen could see his breath. The air smelled metallic from the rain but fresh and clean, despite the undercurrent of stale wool from the fulling mill beyond the bathhouse and the acrid, nose-wrinkling aroma of a tanner’s that lay farther up the Teme.
Stephen paused before the imposing whitewashed stone bulk of the main building of St. John’s Hospital. He debated going in, but it was nearly Compline and no doubt the brothers would be going to services if they weren’t there already. The prior would not allow the disturbance. Events had bought that lay brother Jonathon a reprieve. He felt disgusted with himself. He had wasted the day.
It was almost two-hundred yards up Lower Broad Street to the gate, and by the time Stephen had waded there through the mud, the gate was barred. He pounded on it with his fist. “Gip, you old bastard! Open up.”
There was a long pause before Gip, the warden at the gate, finally answered. “What should I do that for?”
“Because I want to get in.”
“That’s what everybody says, but I’ve got orders. Nobody goes in or out after sundown. Council’s orders, they are. I never break my orders. Who is this anyway?”
“You k
now who it is, damn you — Stephen Attebrook, and I’m on crown business.”
“Attebrook, you say. Crown business! You’ve been down to the Kettle. I saw you.”
“No, you didn’t. It was just somebody who looked like me. Now open up.”
A small panel in the gate opened instead of gate itself, and Gip’s frog-like face appeared in the aperture. “Was too you. I ain’t that blind.”
“Are you suggesting that a man of my position would lie?” Stephen asked archly with exaggerated offense.
“I ain’t met the man yet who wouldn’t lie when it suited him,” Gip said. “Or at least seriously stretch the truth. No offense to you, your honor. Throwing your hard-earned cash away on drink and the lasses down there and you don’t want folks to know. Yer secrets are safe with me, they are.” Gip’s hand appeared beside his face, palm up. “What you got for old Gip, tonight, governor? Or do you want to stand there till dawn in the wet, eh?” He chuckled.
No doubt Gip made a tidy living collecting from people like Stephen who were late leaving the Kettle and who needed to get back into town. Gatekeepers weren’t supposed to let people in after sundown, but they often did for an off-the-table fee. Stephen dug out his last penny and pressed it into the waiting palm. Gip retracted his hand and closed the panel. There were a few bumps and thumps, then the gate swung open enough to admit a man on foot. Stephen stepped through the gap and Gip pulled the gate closed and struggled to drop the heavy bar.
“Thank you, Gip,” Stephen said.
“Yer welcome, yer honor.” Gip tugged his tattered wool cap and grinned. The light, unfortunately, was just good enough to see the single tooth he still retained, which hung crookedly beneath his nose. “Any time. And don’t you worry about yer secrets. I’m good at keeping secrets, I am.”
“I don’t doubt that.”
“Lots of secrets in this town that people don’t want others to know. You’d be amazed, really amazed, at the things that folks do. In the daylight they act all proper like, but in the dark or behind closed doors — well, things are different, real different.”
“So Harry tells me.”
“Oh, he’s a stout lad, that Harry, even if he’s all deformed now. Knows how to keep secrets too, though he don’t get the same profit from it as me.”
“You’re a good man, Gip. I know I can count on you.”
“Oh, you can, you sure can.”
“Tell me, Gip, did you see William Muryet and Howard Makepeese Thursday night?”
Gip’s eyes got shifty. “I don’t know as I did.”
“Muryet’s dead now, you know.”
“Even the dead got secrets. You got to respect that.”
“You want to know a secret about Muryet?”
Gip looked startled. “What?”
“He was murdered.”
“I heard it was a fall. Fell down some stairs visiting a — a doxie.”
“I know what he was, Gip, and he didn’t run with the lasses.”
“Oh, you heard about that.”
“So did you see him and Howard Thursday?”
“Just so you know, there’s nothing between him and Howard.”
Stephen nodded impatiently. “I know. The question is, did you see them Thursday afternoon or evening?”
Gip nodded and spoke as if the words had to be pried from his tongue. “They came through the gate from the Kettle about this time of evening Thursday.”
“Together?”
“Yeah.” Gip hesitated, rubbing his hands on his smock as if locked in an internal debate whether to say anything more.
“What is it?” Stephen demanded.
“Well, they didn’t give me a fee. Howard promised three times the usual for the both of them. Said they were about to make a killing and would be rich men, like by morning they’d be rolling in silver.”
“What kind of killing?”
“They didn’t say. Muryet hushed him up. Said they’d be back next day and pay me.”
“Did Howard?”
“Did Howard what?”
“Come back and pay you.”
“No, he didn’t. I haven’t seen him since, the bastard!” Gip was suddenly angry as if he had just remembered he had been cheated of his rightful graft.
Stephen nodded thoughtfully. “You’ve been a great help, Gip.”
Gip’s expression suggested he wasn’t sure how or why, but he nodded in return. “Glad to be of service, yer honor.”
Stephen trudged up Broad Street, going over in his mind all he had learned so far. Muryet had known a great deal about his dead master’s secret business, of this much Stephen was convinced. As the de facto chamberlain, he would have had access to Baynard’s effects, and could easily have secured the key to the writing box and stolen the list. He would clearly have known its value. So, he was certainly the thief. But for some reason, Muryet and Howard were partners and hoped to benefit equally from it. Yet as often happens, the two thieves must have fallen out over the proceeds. Perhaps Howard became greedy for the whole reward or they quarreled over the division. He was a strong man and could have killed Muryet. After the murder, he had fled. This made it all the more urgent that Stephen find Howard, but he realized that even then, he might not find the list. Howard could have, in fact probably had, sold it by now.
The dark mouth of Bell Lane loomed to his left, still as a crypt except for the patter of water dripping from the eaves. No one was about, even the watch, and behind every closed shutter Stephen imagined the inhabitants of the lane settling into bed. It was so dark, that he could barely make out his way; a half moon riding high to the south was obscured by clouds and provided no help.
A figure emerged from a gap between two houses. Stephen gave a start. Then he relaxed when he realized it was only a boy.
The boy stopped in front of him and held out his hand. He was the same boy Stephen had seen earlier in the day by St. Laurence church. “Sir,” the boy said, “spare a farthing? I’ve had naught to eat since day before yesterday.”
“I don’t have a farthing.” Stephen tried to go around him, but the boy dodged into his path.
“Surely, you do, sir. A man like you’s got lots of pennies. Spare something for a poor boy like me, sir. A farthing isn’t much, sir, to you, but to me it’s a fortune.”
“I said I can’t help you,” Stephen said, trying again to go around the boy, and again the boy dodged into his way.
“I’m starving, sir. Please!”
Stephen was not above helping the less fortunate when he could. But he had nothing to spare, so the boy’s persistence was irritating. He tried once more to go round the boy.
Then the boy dodged once more into Stephen’s way and grabbed his arm.
In the bigger towns, it was not unusual for a beggar to be so aggressive, even though it was not considered decent behavior. But in Ludlow, it was virtually unheard of. Anger rose like steam.
But only for a moment.
For Stephen heard feet behind him, and realized that he was in danger. This boy was no ordinary beggar. He had friends, violent friends.
Only that last moment’s realization and a frantic effort to step aside saved him from a split skull. The blow meant for his head glanced off his right shoulder. The shock was intense. Stephen’s arm felt as though it was paralyzed, and the wind was driven out of him. But if Stephen wanted to avoid another blow, he had to do something fast.
He grasped the boy by the collar with his left hand and threw him into the legs of the man who had just struck him. The assailant, club raised for another blow, was not prepared for this. He and the boy fell in a heap. Stephen kicked the man in the face. He flopped onto his back and didn’t move.
For an instant, Stephen thought it was over. But it wasn’t. There were two other men behind the one who had fallen. Ordinarily, the fact that Stephen had dropped one of his attackers should have been enough to deter the others. Predators want prey they can take easily without harm to themselves; not the ones who fight back. But t
hese men must be desperate, for they came round the one on the ground on either side, while the boy scrambled to his feet and backed toward Broad Street, trying to drag the fallen man by the shoulders out of the way.
The better course was to run, but Stephen’s bad foot left him a far slower sprinter than he had been and he wasn’t confident he could reach the Broken Shield before the two caught him. Even if he did, he wasn’t sure he could leap the fence and reach the safety of the yard in time.
Somehow finding the means, he drew his dagger with his right hand in the reverse grip and waited in middle guard. He backed slowly away, hoping that the sight of steel would deter the two where the knockout blow to their friend had not. But it didn’t. They moved forward cautiously, but came on nonetheless.
The two exchanged a series of furtive glances as they spread apart. It was clear that they were experienced men, used to working together, and they knew the tricks a single victim could employ against them. They would not give him a chance to attack one of them, take him out, and attack the other. And they would not make the mistake of failing to attack Stephen together.
They were almost on opposite sides of him now, right and left, just out of reach, at a point where he could hardly keep both in view at once.
It was time.
No signal passed between them as far as Stephen could see, but they both sensed the moment, and they used it brilliantly. One struck high and one low, the blows coming from two sides so that if Stephen stood to parry one he would be felled by the other.
But Stephen did not stand still.
He slipped toward the man on his right, taking the blow on the dagger which lay along his forearm, hardly aware of the impact, and swept the club away. Without a pause, he stepped behind the man and, grasping him by the left shoulder, threw him to the ground.
There was no time or opportunity to do more to that. The man still on his feet was too dangerous. His blow to the legs had missed, but as an experienced man with a club, he had brought the stave in a circle to his left shoulder and prepared to launch a reverse blow from there without pause.
