by Jason Vail
It was about eight miles by road from here to Ludlow. On the gelding it should take about an hour to get there if he pushed it, which meant he could make it by sundown. The thought of the effort and the pounding of that ride made him want to shudder. Ordinarily, he would not have minded, but the trot was a hard gait, and he didn’t feel up to it. He felt more like lying down and going to sleep right there by the road. The shorter route was north through Marlbrook village to Burington and then down the Aston road. But instead, Stephen remounted and rode south. Another village lay there, a quarter mile away through the forest, although he couldn’t remember its name. He took the track to the village.
By the time Stephen reached it, he had a raging thirst. Lying at the foot of the big hill he’d seen earlier, it was a collection of timber-and-wattle huts, surrounded by their yards and gardens, that straggled along the road. The well was by the road directly across from the manor house, which sat at the road junction, a tall rectangular stone building with a red tiled roof. Stephen dropped the bucket in the well and pulled it up by its rope, for there was no pulley. There was a leather cup attached to the bucket handle by a length of leather string, but he didn’t bother with the cup. He tipped the bucket up and drank directly from it. When he was done, he sat on the well’s wooden wall, wishing he didn’t have to get back on the horse. But he was feeling slightly better. He didn’t have to hold one hand over an eye to see now.
A blacksmith and his two apprentices came over, having just knocked off work. They were covered with black soot and grime.
“You done with that bucket, sir?” the blacksmith asked.
“It’s all yours,” Stephen said.
The blacksmith held a large cake of soap, and he and the boys took turns washing off in the bucket.
Stephen realized that they did this every evening. He thought distastefully of the drink he had just taken.
“What village is this?” Stephen asked.
“Not from around here, are you, sir?” the blacksmith asked.
“I’m from west and north. Don’t get around here much.”
“It’s called Adforton, sir. The village and the manor.”
“Adforton,” Stephen said, rolling the word around in his mouth. “I know someone from around here, I think.”
“And who would that be, sir?” the blacksmith said with polite interest, although he didn’t really care.
“Margaret de Thottenham is her name.”
The blacksmith smiled, warming slightly. “Ah, that would be Lady Margaret. She grew up in that house right over here.” He pointed toward the tall stone house, where smoke dribbled from the chimneys that stuck up at each end. “Her brother holds the manor now.” He added, “We miss her father, the old master. A right good lord, he was.” He stood up abruptly as if he had said more than he should have, for the tone implied that the brother was not as congenial a master as the father had been, and it did not do to criticize the lord to strangers. “Well, give my regards to Lady Margaret when you see her. Shame about her husband being killed and all. My name’s Richard, Richard Smith.”
“I’ll do that Master Smith.”
“Good evening to you, then, sir.” Smith strode off with the apprentices in tow.
“And to you,” Stephen said to his back. He pushed over the bucket so the grimy water spilled onto the ground.
Belatedly, another question swam into his head. But the smith and his boys had turned into the yard of a house fronting the road and were going in the door even as he started after them, about to call out. He should have thought to ask the question before letting the smith get away. I am drunk, he thought disgustedly. I’ve a mind like porridge.
People in town would know the answer — Gilbert would know the answer. Gilbert would be back soon; perhaps even at this moment, he was sitting down to supper at the Broken Shield. The hope that he had returned was the main reason Stephen had insisted on leaving this afternoon, although that was not the reason he had given.
Stephen mounted the gelding. He swung the horse’s head north and slouched toward Ludlow.
Chapter 19
Stephen was sober by the time he descended the slope from Ludford and plodded across the Teme bridge. The jolting of the ride and the bitter chill of the night had brought him back to earth and kept him awake. Sobriety had not brought good feeling, however. His head was pounding, and he wished he could find a warm place to lie down and go to sleep.
The houses along Lower Broad Street were dark and shuttered, their inhabitants having retired for the night. Not for them was there any late night carousing, as there often was at the castle. These were working people who had to be up before dawn to attend to business. It was quiet and peaceful, except for the howl of cats fighting in a distant yard, the avenue bathed in the silver light of a three-quarters moon.
There were lights from candles and oil lamps leaving a glow around the shutters at the Wobbly Kettle, however, even though it was more than an hour after sundown. Several cloaked figures emerged from the front door and hurried away with an air of furtiveness as he rode by. When Stephen glanced to the right across the street from the Kettle, the reason for furtiveness became apparent. A spare hooded figure stood on the stoop of the doorway to St. John’s Hospital as if taking tally of the Kettle’s guests. Stephen recognized the figure when he came up to it.
“Good evening, prior,” Stephen said. “Lovely evening, but a bit cold to be outdoors.”
Prior Simon grunted, as if he had not expected to be spoken to. The prior said flatly, “I am studying the stars.”
Stephen wasn’t sure whether to believe this. “Ah, what do they tell us this evening?”
“I am not an astrologer,” the prior said. “I am a natural philosopher.”
“Oh,” Stephen said, a little nonplused. He didn’t know anything about natural philosophy himself. It was as mysterious as astrology or alchemy as far as he was concerned. His education had been limited to Latin, rhetoric, rudimentary arithmetic, music, and, later, a smattering of the law. “Well, carry on then. Don’t let me interrupt you.”
“I won’t. Good evening, sir.”
“Same to you.”
The town gates were shut and barred, of course. Gip answered his kick to the gate by opening the little view port he used to examine those who came calling after hours. When he saw who it was, to Stephen’s surprise, Gip opened the sally port without giving him any trouble. Stephen ducked down and rode through.
“Heard about that terrible business with young Lucy,” Gip said. “Is it true you found her hanging from a tree?”
“Yes,” Stephen said.
“And she’d killed Howard Makepeese and that girl?”
“Dead as salted pork,” Stephen said.
“Damn,” Gip said. He shook his head. “I’ve heard of people going wild with jealousy, but it’s usually a fellow, not a woman, causes the trouble.”
“Yeah,” Stephen said. He didn’t want to talk about it. He just wanted to get home, see Gilbert, and fall into bed.
He twitched a rein and squeezed with his legs to tell the horse to continue up Broad Street. He was some distance up the street when he heard Gip say distinctly — how voices carry in the stillness and dark! — “He’s back. Up you go. Just like I promised.”
A youthful voice snarled, “Don’t you kick me, you bastard!”
There was a thump and a sharp curse from Gip.
Stephen turned to see what this was about and caught sight of a small shadow slink from the gatehouse and merge with the greater shadow of one of the houses on the east side of the street.
His follower had caught up with him again. Stephen smiled thinly. Although there was nothing humorous in the situation, you had to admire the boy’s persistence.
Stephen scanned the street for other, larger and more dangerous shadows, but didn’t see anything out of the ordinary, except for a pair of dogs trotting soundlessly up the street ahead. He looked back again, but couldn’t see the boy. He thought momen
tarily about turning back to try to catch him. But he dismissed the idea. He was too tired and too slow to bag the boy, who’d just scamper down an alley and leap a fence far more quickly than he could.
Stephen hesitated at Bell Lane, which lay in shadow, a maw that could conceal attackers who might appear from nowhere and drag him from his horse before he had a chance to react. He didn’t relish going down there, all of a sudden. He asked the gelding for a canter, and despite its fatigue, it obeyed, and before he knew it, he was at the Broken Shield’s gate. It was barred from the inside as it always was at night, and he climbed over the fence by standing on the horse’s back. Once inside, it was an easy matter to lift the bar, open the gate, and lead the horse inside, although he suffered some anxiety as he imagined a rush of feet coming at him before he got the gate shut and barred again.
He felt safe now, in the familiarity of the yard, which was awash in brilliant moonlight. The only odd thing was a large black cat he had never seen before, which sat unmoving in a spot of moonlight in the middle of the yard. Its head swivelled to follow his progress to the stable. Its eyes glowed eerily and there was something accusatory in their gleam, and he thought unaccountably of Lucy, as if her soul had somehow come back as the cat and was trying to tell him something.
Groping about in the pitch dark, he found an empty stall for the gelding. He removed the horse’s tack and fumbled about for the grain bin, where he filled a bucket with oats. The gelding was so hungry that he nearly knocked the bucket out of Stephen’s hands going for the oats.
After closing the gate, Stephen went left, running his hand along the wall, counting the stalls to locate Harry’s. The black cat had come to the doorway and watched him pass. Stephen found its presence disturbing.
“Harry,” Stephen called, “are you awake?”
“A dead man couldn’t sleep through that racket,” Harry grumbled. “What do you want?”
“Do you believe in ghosts?”
“Damn it, man, you didn’t wake me up to ask that question, did you?”
“No.”
“Well, then, get on with it. You’re disturbing my rest.”
Stephen glanced at the cat, which was licking a paw. “There’s a boy about twelve, thin, brown hair that sticks out like a hay rick, looks like one of the urchins. I wondered if you knew him.”
Harry grunted. “There’s a dozen boys like that in town.”
“He carries a knife and knows how to use it. I think you might have seen him hanging around Broad Gate.”
There was a rustling as Harry sat up. “Yeah, there was a boy like that hanging around Broad Gate the last few days. Not doing much of anything, just sitting there across the way. Why?”
“He’s been following me. He was waiting for me at Broad Gate when I rode in tonight.”
“You don’t say. What the hell for?”
Stephen told him quickly about his other encounters with the boy, how he’d been at the mouth of Bell Lane on the night he was attacked. “Do you know him?”
“Yeah. He’s Will Thumper’s son, Tad.”
“Will Thumper,” Stephen mused. He didn’t know the name.
“You haven’t heard of Thumper? That’s not his real name, it’s just what people call him, on account of he’s a fighter and beats lots of people up — a big man and quick tempered. Favors a stave to his fists, though. Not bad with a knife, either. Word is, he makes his living as a thief, though no one’s ever caught him at it. You don’t think Thumper was in on that business the other night, do you?”
Favored staves, did he? Both of the men who’d attacked him Saturday night had used clubs. Stephen said: “I believe he was.”
“Why would he take after you?”
“Because someone paid him to do it.”
“Right. That makes sense. We all know that Nigel FitzSimmons wants you dead.”
“Well, actually we don’t know that.”
“Who else could it have been?”
“I suppose to be certain I’ll have to ask Thumper himself.”
“As if he’d tell you,” Harry snorted.
“Where does he live?”
“You’re not really thinking about strolling over and asking him, are you?”
“Uh, yes. What else can I do? Where do I find him?”
“Huh. He’s got a house in lower Galdeford, just beyond the Augustine friary. There’s a brood of Thumpers there, more than a dozen of all ages and every one of them mean as a dog. I wouldn’t go there alone if I was you.”
“Harry, you’re a prize.”
“Ought to be worth something, it should.”
“When Sir Geoff sends my wages, there’ll be a little something for you.”
Harry snorted. “Expect me to extend credit, do you? After Thumper kills you, no one will remember your debt.”
“Good night, Harry.”
Stephen withdrew to the yard and crossed to the inn. The black cat was sitting by the stoop and slunk away at his approach.
He hadn’t noticed it at the front when he first arrived, but there was a candle or two burning in the hall of the inn. He could see the faint glow through a crack in the door. He tried the door and found it barred. But after a moment or two, the bar was lifted and the door opened to reveal Gilbert.
“Well, well,” Gilbert said, stepping back to admit Stephen. “I wondered where you had got to. I thought I heard someone shutting the gate, but no one rang the bell, so I thought it had to be you.” There was a bell by the door that late arrivals used to request admittance.
“How did it go?” Stephen asked.
“Ah, the boy,” Gilbert said, closing the door. He crossed to a table by the fire, where Edith and Jennifer were sitting across from a place setting obviously meant for Gilbert’s late supper. “Not to worry. He’s safe. Your cousin was most congenial and very willingly took him in. Here, he sent you this letter. I have it here somewhere. Good Lord, I couldn’t have lost it!” He rummaged through his large leather belt pouch and came out with a crushed sheet of vellum.
“I wasn’t sure you’d be back by now. It’s a long way into Powys.”
“The roads were good, the weather was fine. We reached the manor the very first evening.”
Stephen was surprised. “It’s more than fifty miles away!”
Gilbert, who had returned to sit before his supper, slapped his thigh. “You couldn’t have done as well — and with a child in my arms, too! You must promise never to make fun of my horsemanship again.”
“No, I suppose I can’t.” Stephen smiled.
Gilbert wagged a finger. “I have witnesses. I’ll hold you to that promise.”
Stephen broke the green wax seal and unrolled the letter, thinking of the man who had written it. About eighty years ago, his great-grandmother’s brother had married a Welsh woman and thereby acquired a manor in Powys. That branch of family was more Welsh than English now, although nominally they still supported the English king. He had met the current holder of the manor, who was really only a very distant cousin, when they were both boys at St. Laurence’s school, and even then they were only together half a year.
It was a brief letter and did not take long to read it. Stephen looked up in astonishment when he was done. “He sent the mare back.”
Gilbert smiled. “He said he did not need encouragement to aid a member of the family in distress.”
“I am ashamed to have thought he might.”
“He bids you come and stay with him, too, when you have done what you need to do here.” Gilbert went on more briskly. “So, tell me what you’ve been up to these last few days.” Gilbert eyed him narrowly as if he already knew.
Stephen told him briefly about following Lucy to Marlbrook and what he’d found when he got there.
Gilbert shook his head sadly. “A terrible, terrible business.” He looked at Stephen closely. “You’re sure this happened on Marlbrook land?”
“Yes. The lord made no bones about the fact it was his property.”
Gilbert sucked his front teeth in thought. “It’s an odd coincidence, you know.”
“What is?”
“It hasn’t struck you?”
“What’s supposed to have struck me?”
“The irony of it. The strangeness.”
“I’m not sure what you mean.”
He spoke as if he was stating an obvious fact that Stephen should already know. “Olivia Baynard was born there. Makepeese and Lucy died on what used to be her family’s land — before they lost it four years ago. Terrible thing, that, terrible stupid thing.”
Stephen stared at the floor. His head felt full of sludge. This was the answer to the question he should have asked in Adforton. There was something important attached this answer, and it took some time to work its way through the sludge in his head. He wished again that he hadn’t had so much to drink this afternoon.
“Clement,” Stephen said, standing up. “Clement will know this.”
“I’m sure he would,” Gilbert said mildly. “Doubtless by now he’s found out. The whole town knows about Lucy and Makepeese. Bad news always travels faster than good. Especially that kind.”
Stephen started toward the front door. “Then I must hurry. Olivia is in danger.”
Chapter 20
“Olivia Baynard — in danger from Clement? How could that be possible?” Gilbert sputtered the question as he raced after Stephen when they emerged into Bell Lane. He could hardly keep pace with Stephen when the taller and younger man was walking, and now he was running.
“Howard Makepeese went to ground on Marlbrook land,” Stephen said as they hurried toward Broad Street. “The fact he hid there means she hid him, which means she knows about the list. Clement may have the brains of a toad, but he isn’t so stupid that he can’t figure that much out.”
