The Woodville Connection

by K. E. Martin

  Sir Stephen seemed the obvious answer but even so I was not sure. For one thing, the manor and village people seemed so accustomed to the injustice of Plaincourt rule that had they witnessed their master murder Geoffrey with his bare hands, I believed they would not have thought to speak out against him. I could tell that centuries of dominance had ingrained in them a sense of hopeless resignation. Like dumb animals they accepted that oft-times their Plaincourt masters did evil things. The best they could hope was that those evil things would have little impact on their own lives.

  Put another way, even though the common folk knew very well that Plaincourt had desired his nephew’s death, they would never directly accuse him of murdering the lad. Sir Stephen would understand this. He would know that he was assured of the villagers’ loyalty come what may, in the way that a cruel man who whips his dog knows that when called the cur will always come cringing to his side.

  Since he had no reason to question the loyalty of someone like Jem Flood, a Plaincourt man born and bred, I reasoned that Flood surely had nothing to fear from Sir Stephen. Yet the cook was desperately afraid of someone, of that I was certain, and as far as I could tell there were just three possible candidates – Rivers, Blanche, and me.

  I immediately dismissed Rivers from my calculations for the Earl had not been present at Plaincourt when Geoffrey was killed. In any case it was scarcely credible that Flood would suspect the King’s brother-in-law of skulking outside his kitchen door in the hope of overhearing scurrilous gossip concerning their master. Even I could not think this of him, and I was more than ready to follow my friend Dickon’s lead in thinking ill of the noble Earl.

  So then, Flood was afraid of either Blanche or me. It was possible, I acknowledged, that my appearance at Plaincourt and subsequent interest in Geoffrey’s death might have given the man reason to be suspicious of me. He might well believe that my true purpose in visiting the manor was to delve into the matter but why should that frighten him? I could think of one reason only, namely that he was involved in the murder.

  It was possible, that was certain. He was a strong fellow, and he had readily given me his opinion that Geoffrey should have died when he was much younger. The only trouble with this hypothesis was that I thought I already knew the identity of the murderer and it was not him.

  So, if not Rivers and not me, then it was Blanche who struck terror into Flood’s heart. From something Cuckoo had said earlier I knew that she also feared the master’s betrothed. Me too, I thought, me too, for I was now quite convinced that the exquisite Blanche St Honorine du Flers was naught but a black-hearted murderess.

  When my nostrils could suffer the stink of cabbage no longer I quit the kitchen garden and headed back into the house. I made my way to the hall, intent on retrieving my lute from the dais where I had left it after dinner. Before I set foot on the dais, however, I was apprehended by a snivelling, ill-nourished urchin who tugged at my sleeve and told me I was needed at once in the stable.

  “Who needs me?” I demanded to know but the snot-nosed squirt ignored the question and stupidly repeated his message.

  “Thee’s to come at once t’stables,” he said again, “and be quick wi’it!”

  To emphasise the urgency of the matter he pulled at my wrist and, realising he was not going to say any more, I made to go with him. At once he let go of my hand and shot in front of me, crossing the hall and bolting through the doorway before I had taken five steps.

  Grinning at the oddness of his behaviour I followed at a brisk enough pace, wondering idly what emergency could require my presence in the stables. My borrowed rouncey had seemed hale enough the last time I had looked in on it but mayhap it had been eating too richly and had taken a colic. Musing that I was the last person to know what to do in such a circumstance, I had made it as far as the kennels when a massive figure ducked out from a behind a wall and stood four-square in front of me, blocking my way. Thickset, with a ludicrously bushy black beard and granite countenance, this was no one I’d yet encountered at Plaincourt.

  Realising at once that I was being ambushed, I turned sharply on my heel only to see with sinking heart that another bearded and thickly muscled brute, the virtual double of the first, had already taken position behind me. Glancing about the courtyard for a friendlier face, I saw the place was deserted save for my would-be assailants.

  Deciding that making a run for it was my best option, I made a forward feint and then dodged sideways but the bristle-faced scoundrel in front of me read my intention and grabbed my arms. As he held me, the second delivered a vicious punch to my abdomen, winding me sufficiently so that they were able to manhandle me behind the kennels where they preceded to lay about me with their fists and boots.

  So swift and vicious was their onslaught that I found myself wholly unable to retaliate. No sooner did I try to rise to my feet than another blow would catch me on the chin, in the gut or on the rump and I would find myself kissing dirt. As blow upon blow rained down on me I knew extreme pain but even then the real damage was to my pride. Drawing ragged breaths, I cursed my attackers as loudly as I could manage but inside I cursed my own foolishness for falling into their trap.

  I know not whether their intention was to beat me to death or simply render me senseless. I was saved from either fate by the ruckus the hounds set up, excited by my grunts of pain, the scent of blood or both. Their barking disturbed the kennelman who from some unknown location across the courtyard flung at the agitated beasts an angry imprecation to be silent. Blessedly, the hounds ignored his command and so some moments later his footsteps could be heard approaching the kennels.

  The fellow’s advent persuaded my assailants that the time had come for them to leave off my beating, enjoyable as it had so obviously been for them. One last cruel kick to the head sent me sprawling face down in the dust and then they were gone.

  When the kennelman discovered me, he swore softly and then quieted the hounds with a few words of reassurance. When they had fallen silent he surveyed me and then, with commendable lack of drama, asked if I thought I could stand. Nodding, I stretched out my right arm and suffered him to raise me gently to my feet. I felt dazed and unsteady but also overwhelmingly relieved to be breathing still.

  Gingerly assessing my injuries, I ascertained that I was bleeding freely and would soon have bruises all over my body. Mercifully, however, I detected no broken bones and saw that apart from a few grazes my hands were unscathed. For this I gave heartfelt thanks to Saint Cecilia, the patron saint of musicians, since hands are of utmost importance to a lutenist.

  The kennelman offered to walk with me to the house but I declined his help as graciously as my swollen lips could manage. Though he had been my saviour, I sensed in him a reluctance to become further embroiled in my affairs and in truth I could scarce blame him for it. Yesterday when we’d met, Matthew had said I looked like trouble and now I had proved his point. Yet before I released the kennelman there was one question I needed to ask him.

  “Did you know the hairy bastards who did this to me?” I asked hopefully. “I saw their faces but cannot place them. I think they must be newly arrived at Plaincourt for I have not seen them before.”

  “Sorry, master,” the fellow answered gruffly but also, I thought, a touch apologetically, “I didst see no sign of anyone. Whoever it were, they didst scarper when they didst hear me coming. Now see thee dost take my advice, master, and get thyself safe to bed.”

  Aware that simple self-preservation would likely dissuade the fellow from disclosing the identity of my attackers even if he had seen them, I thanked him again for his assistance and limped back to the house. With no little effort I made it to the dais where I was piteously grateful to find my precious lute unharmed. If someone at Plaincourt wished to injure me, I conjectured they could find no better way to achieve their aim than by damaging my instrument. Luckily, my enemy - whoever that was – had been unaware of this fact. Thanking God and the saints for this blessing at least, I picked up t
he lute and then made my way slowly and painfully up to my apartment. Intent on further examination of my wounds, instead I found myself seized by such deep fatigue that I lay as I was in my bloodied state and slept.

  I woke some while later, stiff and sore in body but sufficiently rested in mind to start considering who might have instigated my beating. Running through a list of possible names in my head, I came to the conclusion that the likeliest candidate had to be Rivers. Having recognised me as a friend of the Duke of Gloucester, the Earl must have wondered why I was peddling a different story about my identity. Either he suspected that my motive in coming to Plaincourt was to stir up trouble for his friend, or he was simply inclined to dislike me for being close to Gloucester. Whichever way, I guessed that he had charged two of his most brutish retainers with giving me a thrashing, maybe to frighten me into an abrupt departure or to kill me outright.

  In support of this supposition was the fact that both attackers had been strangers to me. I was wholly certain I had seen neither of them before and this served to convince me that they must have arrived with Rivers. It did strike me as curious that I had not remarked these conspicuous characters sitting with the Earl’s other retainers at dinner. However, for much of that time I had been occupied on the gallery, my concentration focused on endeavouring not to disgrace myself with poor musicianship whilst simultaneously paying close attention to the people on the dais. Was it any wonder, then, that I had failed to notice a couple of boorish henchmen who would in any case have likely been seated far from the main table?

  Satisfied with my conclusion that Rivers had ordered the attack, I considered the implications to my investigation. Common sense dictated that I should quit Plaincourt with all speed since my life was clearly in danger, yet I baulked at the idea of leaving without a resolution of the matter for my lord of Gloucester. As my mind fussed and fretted with the problem it became apparent that my faculties were not as refreshed as I had supposed and within a short while I began to doze.

  I was roused from my slumbers by a loud hammering outside the chamber. Swearing softly, I rose groggily to my feet and threw open the door. Rolf stood before me, the look of comical indignation on his face giving way to shock when he beheld the condition I was in.

  “Blessed Saint Oswald!” he spluttered. “What mischief didst befall thee?”

  So I look bad enough to startle Old Shuffler, I thought ruefully. That’s not reassuring. Without waiting for my answer, the old servant pulled at my bloodied gown.

  “What to do, what to do?” he muttered anxiously. “‘Tis certain thee didst not ought to be seen in this, yet thee’s wanted in’t hall this very instant.

  “Well, there’s nowt to be done, thee must come as thee is and make answer for thyself as best thee can.”

  “Who wants me in the hall, and why?” I asked, resisting his feeble attempts to tug me from the chamber by my sleeves.

  “Why dost thee ask such a fool question?” the old man snapped. “‘Tis the supper hour, thee’s a minstrel and the company dost desire that thee play. Now dost thee come or would thee have me tell Master thee dost prefer to lie abed?”

  “Aye, I’ll come,” I said curtly, “but I’ll not bring my lute for I doubt I could hold it to play.”

  “As thee will,” Rolf answered, and then commenced a slow shuffle back towards the hall. I followed, thankful for once for his sluggish pace since it meant that my aching limbs did not need to move more quickly than they were able.

  At the bottom of the staircase I paused for a moment to gather my thoughts. I was aware that I might be walking back into danger, though I doubted that Rivers would authorise a public attack, in which case I should be safe enough for the time being. Yet as I approached the dais my theory that the noble Earl had ordered the beating was set on its head.

  “What’s this?” he called out as he took note of my cuts and bloodied clothing. “Master Cranley, who has done this you?”

  Plaincourt, Rivers and Blanche sat at the table as before. I attempted a bow and then winced, whereupon Rivers leapt from his bench and strode to my side.

  “Here, man, take my arm,” he ordered.

  Obeying, I found myself guided to the place next to the Earl’s.

  “Who did this to you?” he demanded again. “Whoever it was must be punished severely. It is a monstrous affront to Sir Stephen’s hospitality, aye and an affront to me, also, for I would hear you play again tonight and clearly you are in no condition to do so.”

  Well, I found myself thinking, this is passing strange. The very man I blame for my attack seems genuinely offended by it. I knew, of course, that he might have been feigning indignation yet his words and looks struck me as sincere.

  Stealing a glance at Blanche I saw that she too looked aghast at the sight of my injuries. Rising purposefully, she walked to me and examined the marks on my face.

  “You must return to your chamber at once, Master Cranley,” she instructed. “Rolf, you are a sorry muttonhead to bring the minstrel in this condition. Send for a boy to help him back up to his apartment. Master Cranley, I will fetch some things from my still room to alleviate your discomfort. I’ll attend you directly.”

  She swept from the hall on her dainty feet, pausing only to bob a respectful curtsey to Rivers. He gave her an appreciative smile and then turned his attention back to me.

  “Now speak, man,” he commanded, “tell us who did this to you?”

  Before replying, I cast around the hall to see if the bully boys were present. Perhaps unsurprisingly, they were not.

  “I saw their faces, my lord, but did not recognise them,” I replied. “I was sent word that I was needed in the stables. On my way there I was jumped by two ugly brutes with beards down to their chests. They seemed to have a grudge against me, I know not why.”

  From the corner of my eye I saw the urchin who had delivered the message disappear beneath his trestle table. He was right to be afraid, for he had no way of knowing that I did not mean to land him in trouble. Very likely he hadn’t understood that he was sending me to a beating and even if he had, I could not bring myself to blame him for grabbing the chance to earn a farthing. Further up the same table I spied the kennelman who had come to my aid. His face had reddened and he looked agitated.

  “Then something, I know not what, disturbed the ruffians,” I said loudly, “for they took off at speed, leaving me in the dust. When I was able, I made my way back to the manor.”

  Relief flooded the kennelman’s face. A slight dip of his head signalled his thanks for leaving out his part in my rescue. Whether or no he had seen my aggressors it was plain he was unwilling to be questioned about the matter.

  Rivers now turned his emerald gaze to his host who had not, I suddenly realised, uttered a word since I had entered the hall.

  “What say you, Stephen?” he enquired, a little pointedly I thought. “How shall we uncover the guilty parties?”

  Sir Stephen looked me over with ill-concealed dislike.

  “I neither know nor care why this tiresome man was given a beating. Doubtless he offended someone and was punished for his impertinence. Really, my lord, I do not comprehend your interest in the fellow. Look at him – he’s little better than a vagrant! The sooner he leaves Plaincourt the better.”

  From the expression on Rivers’ face I gathered he was as astonished at Plaincourt’s words as I.

  “Stephen,” he said very quietly, “I believe that you should care. It looks very ill that a man staying in your house, at your invitation, should be dealt with so ungently.”

  He would have said more but Sir Stephen rose abruptly and stalked haughtily from the hall. Silence fell at the lower tables and I knew I was not the only one present to marvel at Plaincourt’s discourteous behaviour. I was wondering how this matter would resolve itself when Matthew appeared at my side.

  “Come along now, master,” he urged. “I’m come at Rolf’s bidding to help thee to thy bed.”

  Cheered enormously by the sigh
t of his pleasant face, I allowed him to lend me his support as I stood up.

  “Take heart, Master Cranley,” Rivers called to me as I quit the hall. “You’ll come to no harm from now on, I vow, for I extend to you my own protection. Your ill-wishers should know that I’ll regard any new attack on your person as an attack on me, and will deal with it accordingly.”

  With those puzzling words ringing in my ears I was escorted by Matthew back up the staircase and thence to the welcome solace of my chamber.

  Chapter 11

  A Nocturnal Visit

  When Blanche arrived to tend my wounds I was more than ready for some answers.

  “Who did this to me?” I demanded to know as she began to help me from my raiment.

  “That’s easily answered. From the description you gave of your attackers I’d say you have Walt and John Tench to thank for these injuries. But perhaps you would be wiser to ask who it was that ordered the beating.”

  Soon I was standing naked before her. I would have resisted her insistent hands as they pulled away my clothing but I was too far gone in pain and weariness to make the effort. In any case, she seemed insultingly disinterested in my manhood, flicking her violet eyes at and then away from it as if inspecting a tray of three-day old offal.

  “Very well, then I will ask you. Who ordered my beating?” I continued, prompting her to make a small, impatient sound.

  “Can you truly be such an innocent?” she asked, dabbing a soothing salve onto my cuts.

  “This is made from myrrh and yarrow,” she informed me though I cared not a whit. “It will ease the pain and encourage the wounds to heal cleanly.”

  “Aye, that’s all very well,” I said ungraciously, “but please explain your meaning. In what way am I an innocent?”