by Jason Vail
“Ah, right. You are our coroner here. You must be careful about that. There are some things that we are not allowed to doubt. I should like to go to this woman’s grave. Rosamond . . . wasn’t that her name?
Randall glanced at Stephen for help. Stephen nodded. Randall said, “Yes, my lord. That’s what some people have taken to calling her.”
“Perhaps she will give us guidance about what to do in this calamity. If you would show me the way, I would appreciate it.”
“Certainly, my lord, but I think you know the way.”
The way to Saint Laurence’s church was straight down High Street from the castle, and the church was hard to miss, its brownstone tower looming over its neighbors. Like the castle, it was an anchor to the town.
When he first arrived, the Prince had been a great novelty. The entire population had turned out and crowded the streets when the Prince appeared. But after a week of his coming and going on this visit or that, or on a hunting or hawking trip, the novelty had worn off, so that the Prince, at the head of a large gathering, since he could not go anywhere without one, only attracted a glance or two, and none of the journeymen or apprentices in the High Street shops broke in their work to come out and gawk. The Prince did not seem to mind, since he never paid much attention to common people except when they got in the way.
Although Randall was supposed to be leading the Prince to the church, Edward soon outdistanced him, even though Randall’s gout had subsided so that he could walk perfectly well for a change. But Edward was just a bit taller than Stephen, who was six feet in his stockings, and moved quickly upon muscular legs that tight hose showed off quite well. Even FitzAllen, who was a big man, seemed small beside him so that when Edward spoke to FitzAllen, sometimes he had to bend his head with its jutting chin, auburn hair falling about unshaven cheeks, to FitzAllen’s ear. Stephen was too far back to hear what they were saying, but FitzAllen looked back at Stephen and said something, at which Edward looked back at him, too.
“Poisoning Edward’s mind against me, no doubt,” Stephen said to Gilbert, who was hurrying to keep up with the rapid pace Edward set.
“Why would you think that? You’re too small a man for a Prince to bother with, although it’s a measure of your worth that you are hated by great men rather than little ones,” Gilbert puffed. “How many is that now? Two ? Three? You have been so busy that I’ve lost track.”
“I haven’t been counting. More, I think, if you include Henle.”
“Oh, he’s no more bother than a fly. I wouldn’t count him.”
It did not take much time for Edward’s long legs to bring him to College Lane, and the procession swept around the corner to the churchyard. Edward passed through the gate in the stone fence and turned to Randall. “Which one is it?”
“That one, over there.” Randall pointed to a stone about four feet high topped with a Celtic cross. A Welsh stone cutter living in the town had made it after his daughter had been healed of a mass of boils by having the grass growing over Rosamond’s grave rubbed on them. The monument had been there only a couple of weeks, but people had chipped off pieces of it to take away as relics so that the corners looked as though they had been nibbled by mice.
Edward knelt on the grass before the stone. This forced everyone in view to drop to their knees as well, regardless of whether they had any intention of invoking the aid of the putative saint. He remained there quite a while. Although kneeling took the weight off Stephen’s bad foot, it began to twinge sharply.
At last Edward rose. He walked toward the church door. “Around here, then? That’s where she was found?”
“Yes,” Randall said, hastening to the Prince’s side. “Right where you are standing.”
Edward was standing in the middle of the path, which was not where Rosamond’s body had been found. As best as Stephen had been able to work things out, she had died just outside the church door and then someone unknown, although he suspected her husband, Warin Pentre, had dragged the body to a place just off the path a few steps away from where Edward stood. But he did not correct Randall.
“And people walked over her after the snows came,” Edward marveled. “And they didn’t even know it.”
“It is quite a story, your grace,” Randall said.
“Yet she was found.”
“By a beggar. On Christmas Day.”
“And did that find bring him good fortune?”
“I believe it did, your grace.”
“I have prayed that she will bring me good fortune, both for the return of Saint Milburga’s relic and for the army in the war to come. We will need her help, since Saint Milburga is beyond our reach at present . . . unless . . .”
There was a pause which Randall, who had some experience dealing with royalty, did not venture to fill.
“Unless someone finds the relic for us.”
“I’m not sure I follow you, your grace,” Randall said, although Stephen suspected that he followed very well and did not like what was coming.
“Percival would like to have his relic back,” Edward said. “And so would I. Coroners are experienced in solving mysteries. What could be more mysterious often times than the manner of a man’s death? And I understand that you have considerable skill in that department. I would like you to find the relic, and return it to its rightful place.”
“But, your grace, you will need every fighting man you can get in the coming weeks. We are likely to be outnumbered, and a single knight left behind could spell the difference between victory and defeat.”
“Yet the relic is more important than a hundred men, even a thousand.”
“Well, there is one man who can be spared for this task. A man who perhaps will be more useful in such an endeavor than I.”
Edward glanced at Stephen. “Yes, I’ve heard that you have a deputy who has proven to be rather resourceful. But he and Percival apparently have a history, and not a friendly one. Are you certain he can be trusted in this to use every effort, even though it may benefit a man he dislikes?”
“I think that overstates Sir Stephen’s feelings, your grace.”
“Well, let’s hear from the man himself. That’s always better, don’t you think, than getting things second hand?” Edward beckoned to Stephen. “Come here, fellow!”
When Stephen didn’t move promptly, Gilbert gave him a little push.
“Your grace,” Stephen said as he bowed to the Prince. “How can I help?”
“You’ve heard what’s been said,” Edward said. “You know our problem. Can you find Saint Milburga’s relic?”
“I can’t make any promises, your grace. You can never tell how these things will turn out.” Stephen looked up into Edward’s eyes. They were gray, and they seemed at odds with his manner, which was bluff, with heartiness that some might misinterpret as fecklessness. The eyes were distant, measuring, holding back, like the eyes of a certain lady he knew, cold, weighing the world and all who passed before them, searching for weakness and for how one might be useful. He wondered if he would ever see the lady again.
“No, I don’t suppose you can. If you find the relic, you will be richly rewarded. Percival will see to it, won’t you Percy?”
“Well, your grace . . .” FitzAllen muttered.
“Oh, very well, Percy, we will pay half the reward. Will that do?”
“Thank you, my lord.”
“There now. Can we count on you, Sir Stephen?”
“I will do my best, your grace.”
“Off you go, then.” Edward turned away toward High Street.
The procession followed Edward out of the churchyard, leaving Stephen and Gilbert alone by Rosamond’s stone except for Percival FitzAllen, who lingered by the gate.
Stephen rested his hand on the stone, thinking of the dead girl who lay beneath it. Only he, Gilbert, Harry, and one other knew who she was, and she had not been a saint but just an ordinary girl fleeing a tormented life. He would not have wished the manner of her death on anyone: a sad
accident, and the waste of two lives full of promise.
Gilbert tugged his sleeve. “Come on. You can’t do any good here.”
“So now we have to waste our time for no purpose?”
“We?”
“You don’t think I’m doing this without you!”
“I was afraid that you might take that position,” Gilbert said.
“You’ve often claimed that you are the brains behind my success. It’s time you proved it.”
“I shall be glad to, especially in this matter,” Gilbert said as they reached the gate and FitzAllen. “It’s too important to be left to the likes of you.”
“Don’t think that this changes anything,” FitzAllen said.
“You have such a winning way,” Stephen said. “I am underwhelmed. Are you going to send more of your boys to kill me? I’ll have a hard time finding the relic if I’m dead.”
“We will have a truce. For the time being.”
“Truces are good. Tell me about this relic. What does it look like?” Stephen did not think that even Gilbert, who was well informed about spiritual matters, knew this.
“It’s the thigh bone of the saint. It’s broken in two about the middle, like a snapped twig.”
“What color is it?”
“How would I know?”
“You’ve seen it, of course.”
“Brown. I think it’s brown. You’ve seen old bones before. It doesn’t look any differently from what you’d dig up there.” FitzAllen waved at the graves behind them.
“A brown thigh bone broken in two. There aren’t many of those around England, are there Gilbert?”
“I should say not,” Gilbert murmured with an odd reserve.
“Don’t think about substituting some cast off,” FitzAllen said. “There are emeralds affixed to each piece.”
“That should make it easier to spot. I am curious. Why would you bring such a valuable object out of safekeeping into the middle of an army?”
“My intentions are not your concern.”
“It seems to me that everything about the relic is now my concern.”
“I will not have you inquiring into my purposes. They are none of your business.”
“Thank you, my lord earl. You have been most helpful.” Stephen extended his hand. “Shall we shake hands and confirm our truce?”
“I’ll not shake hands with the killer of Warin Pentre,” FitzAllen spat.
“I am not responsible for Pentre’s death,” Stephen said, choosing his words carefully.
FitzAllen snorted. “What rot! You were seen at the same house where supporters of Simon de Montfort gathered for a secret meeting. Then you turn up at Pentre’s castle, you depart a short time later, and the next thing we know, a hostile army of Montfort’s people attack and burn it. It’s too much to be a coincidence. You were sent there to spy him out, to find out his weaknesses so that the others could enjoy success. But I’ll tell you what — if you find my relic, I’ll not denounce you as a traitor. Yet, anyway. That is my part of the reward.”
FitzAllen spun about and strode up College Lane.
Chapter 4
“He left out a lot of what happened,” Gilbert said as they stood in the street watching FitzAllen vanish around the corner.
“Probably because he doesn’t know it,” Stephen replied. “But he knows enough to hang me.”
In November, Stephen had indeed slipped into Bucknell, where FitzAllen’s retainer Warin Pentre maintained a castle. His objective was two-fold: to determine whether Pentre was linked to the deaths of some merchants on the Shrewsbury road, and to confirm that Pentre was behind a series of barn burnings and raids on the lands of supporters of Simon de Montfort. He had found both suspicions to be true at great cost to himself. Stephen said, “I should go.”
“Go? Go where?”
“Away. Somewhere away, where I’m not known. Where I can change my name, if necessary, and make a new life. I’m done here. FitzAllen will see me ruined in the end.”
Gilbert took Stephen’s arm and they walked toward the corner. “That would be the prudent thing, I suppose. It’s a shame. Edith will miss you.”
“I think Edith regards me as someone who needs to be cleaned up after and who takes up a bed that could be put to profit.”
“Well, there is that. But she still likes you.”
“She doesn’t often act like it.”
“You misjudge her. She’s quite fond of you, I swear it. If you must flee, I suppose Lady Margaret would take you in, and help you find a place. Although it will be a matter of great distress to find you formally allied with the other side.”
The Lady Margaret de Thottenham occupied an uncertain position among Montfort’s supporters, who were opposed to the king and the men closest around him and whom everyone expected would rise in rebellion soon; an important spy, or something. Stephen wasn’t exactly sure. It had been her townhouse in Shrewsbury that FitzAllen had referred to. He wondered if he should warn her that she might have been found out. “I suppose she might.”
“You might at least want that reward before you go.”
“What? FitzAllen’s silence?”
“Well, I think the Prince has something more substantial in mind. God knows, you could use the money. I doubt you’ve got more than half dozen pennies to rub together at the moment. Why, if money doesn’t suit you, you could confess your part in Pentre’s demise — claim you were duped or something, you have the face of someone quite dupe-able, so he might believe you — and beg for a pardon. The Prince wants that relic returned very badly. He wouldn’t have promised a reward himself otherwise.”
“And how likely is it that I’ll see any reward?”
“You’ve been lucky so far. It could turn out well.”
They reached the corner of High Street and turned toward the castle.
“Waste of time,” Stephen said.
“Probably, but you never know.” Gilbert tapped his temple. “But remember, you have my keen mind behind you.”
“That is a great comfort.”
“Come now, you could at least sound like you meant it.”
“I did mean it. If I cannot convince you of that, how am I going to convince Prince Edward that I’m not a traitor, when I really am?”
“You shall have to work on your delivery. Just copy how the great lords dissemble. But you’ll have time for that. It’s not like we’re going to find this relic in a day.”
Stephen and Gilbert reached the castle gate and entered the outer bailey. He slowed as if measuring the tents filling up the enclosure almost to bursting in order to gauge how to get through them, but he was really buying time to think about what to do next. He didn’t have a firm idea. Whatever success he had enjoyed in the past came more from blind luck than any shrewd plan, though he was weak enough to accept credit which he did not feel he deserved. He had hoped that Gilbert’s great mind would provide helpful suggestions, but he seemed to be out of them at the moment.
“I think we should talk to the prior,” Stephen said. He was certain that the stooped cleric he had seen in the Genevilles’ chapel was the prior, as the monks had not yet departed.
“Of Greater Wenlock Priory?” Gilbert asked, stopping short.
“What other prior did you think I was referring to?”
“I suppose you expect him to tell us who was the last person to see the bauble and all that.”
“Bauble? You’re making light of this important relic?”
“If it had been up to me, I’d never have fastened gems to it. I don’t understand how they could have let it be mutilated like that.”
“Perhaps you should ask the prior, if it troubles you so much.”
“I think I’ll let you ask the prior.” Gilbert started to turn away.
Stephen caught his arm. “You’re not coming?”
“It just occurred to me that one of us should report to Henle concerning Ormyn’s death.”
“Well, I’ll admit that needs doing, but we have
to pass the chapel before we get to Henle. He can wait until we question the prior. Come along, let’s get this over with.”
Gilbert did not register any more objections, but Stephen still practically had to drag him into the inner bailey.
“What has got into you?” Stephen asked as the reached to door to the chapel.
“Nothing. Nothing at all. I think I’ll wait here. I’m sure you can handle this bit by yourself.” He slipped to the side so he could not be seen by anyone still in the chapel.
Exasperated but unwilling to drag Gilbert bodily inside, Stephen left him skulking about the doorway.
The crowd that had gathered at the discovery of the missing relic had broken up and wandered off, and only the castle’s priest was in the chapel in conversation with a half dozen monks in black habits. They fell silent as Stephen stopped nearby, waiting for them to finish whatever they had to say to each other.
“May I help you?” the priest asked.
“Father, the Prince asked me to look into the matter of the missing relic, and to find it if that is possible.”
“And you are?” one of the monks asked. He was a striking man in his forties, with a long Norman face. He was as tall as Stephen, which meant he was taller than the others. His eyes, which regarded the world with an aristocratic detachment, lingered on Stephen’s worn blue shirt with its patched elbow and fraying cuffs, his stockings with a new hole just below the knee, and his battered boots.
“He is our coroner, Brother Adolphus,” the priest said, “or rather our deputy coroner, Sir Stephen Attebrook. He’s proven to be quite adept at finding things, principally having to do with murder.”
“Perhaps he should apply himself to finding a suitable living,” Brother Adolphus said. “I’ve seen bricklayers who looked more prosperous.”
“Be careful what you say, Brother Adolphus,” Stephen said, stung at the insult. It was hard enough, in his misfortune, to have to endure the looks of people like him. To have it brought up out loud was harsh indeed, especially since it was the truth.
