by Jason Vail
“He’d be in the inner bailey, then,” Stephen said.
“I expect so, hanging around his betters and hoping to be noticed.” As Stephen turned away, the soldier added, “We’re glad you came, sir. It means a lot, it does.”
Gilbert pulled up short when Stephen veered toward the round chapel of Saint Mary Magdelene within the inner bailey rather than taking the stairs in the gate tower to the guard commander’s quarters. “Why are we going there? I thought we were after Turling.”
“I’ve just thought of a few more questions for our monks. I want to ask them before I forget.”
“You won’t mind if I find something else to do?”
“You don’t fancy another confrontation with Brother Adolphus?”
“He never was my favorite person, no.”
“All right, then. Why don’t you hunt down Turling and ask him if Jameson was on duty Thursday night.”
“I’d think you’re better fitted for that. You know the man and can speak to him on the same level, more or less. But I, a lowly clerk and a merchant besides? You recall his attitude.”
“Well, if you have no appetite for Turling, you could just linger by the door, where you might be seen by your former friends.”
“There is that. Very well, if Turling’s my alternative.”
“You are such a good fellow,” Stephen said in an overly hearty way. “With you on the case, we shall find the answer to Ormyn’s death in short order. I should like that load off my mind. The other is heavy enough.”
“Good fellow! You say good fellow to me? You are becoming decidedly cheeky. It shows that you’re spending far too much time under Harry’s influence.”
Stephen pointed to the gate tower, which they had just passed through. “I’d start there. The boys should have some idea where he is if his wife doesn’t.”
“I shall inquire. I am very good at inquiring, as you know.” Gilbert swung around and made for the tower, glad to get away from the chapel.
“As I know,” Stephen murmured to Gilbert’s back.
Stephen entered the chapel. There was no one inside, so he crossed through the chancel to the temporary dormitory in the scriptorum. He supposed he should knock, but he didn’t. Some of the monks were packing their few belongings into satchels. This seemed an odd thing. Few travelers set out for anywhere this late in the day, much less go anywhere on a Sunday.
“May I help you, sir?” the closest monk asked.
“I’d like to see the prior.”
“He’s not feeling well. I’ll fetch Brother Adolphus.”
Brother Adolphus was visible at the rear of the dormitory sitting on his cot, reading a small book. He looked annoyed when the monk reached him and gestured at Stephen. Brother Adolphus marked his place with a blue ribbon and put down the book. He crossed the dormitory in no hurry to see what Stephen wanted.
“You have good news for us?” Brother Adolphus asked. “No, I suppose not. That would be asking too much.”
“No, I have only a question or two.”
“If you must.”
“I understand the earl intended to give the relic to the Prince.”
“That was his intention.”
“And that it was the earl who had the emeralds affixed to it.”
Brother Adolphus’ mouth turned down. “He did that.”
“And I suspect this gift was a secret. No one knew of it. But you, of course.”
“The earl instructed us not speak of it.”
“So it would be a surprise.”
“Yes. A surprise.”
“Did anyone other than you and your brethren — and the men at Wattepas’ establishment — know about this plan?”
Adolphus shook his head. “Not that I know of.”
“Are you sure there’s no way anyone else could know that the relic had been . . . enhanced?”
“You mean desecrated? I cannot think of anyone.”
“Did anyone else come in the shop while you were there?”
“I cannot remember. There might have been. Is this important?”
“I don’t know. I say, are you leaving?”
“At first light tomorrow. I trust you’ll send word if you find our missing relic.” Brother Adolphus did not wait for a reply. He turned away and glided back to his cot.
Gilbert was by the gate when Stephen emerged from the chapel. “That was quick,” Stephen said.
“He wasn’t in. He’s gone bowling, his wife said. Goes every Sunday. She said he seems to like his bowls more than Mass.”
“A sore point between them?”
“Apparently. Did my old friends tell you what you wanted to know?”
“Brother Adolphus was not helpful.” Stephen recounted their conversation.
“He said there might have been,” Gilbert mused when Stephen was done. “That means there probably was. Wattepas is a busy man. People are in and out of his shop all the time.” Gilbert drummed his fingers on the handrail of the drawbridge. “As it is Sunday, we shall find him at bowls as well and kill two birds with one stone. It is a bit of a walk. Are you up to it?”
“Are you insinuating something?” Stephen asked as they stepped off the drawbridge and headed toward the main gate.
“Not at all. Try to keep up with me. That’s all I ask,” Gilbert said.
“I shall do my best.”
The land within the town walls was not flat enough for bowls, except perhaps for High Street or the castle bailey. But the bailey was impossible, of course, and High Street too rutted and full of pot holes. The stones would have flown off at all angles in the street, to the hazard of the buildings, not to mention pedestrians who got in the way. There was the graveyard at Saint Laurence’s church as well, but the priests did not approve of gambling because of the wreckage it brought to so many lives, and there was a lot of that wherever there was bowls.
Yet all was not lost to the bowls enthusiasts, for an enterprising inn owner a few hundred yards north of Corve Gate had sufficient level ground for the game which had originally been dedicated to archery butts. A few of the butts remained, but bowls had taken over the rest of the yard. It was a popular spot where there was plenty of wine and ale (at much higher prices than elsewhere) and the soothing view of the River Corve close at hand, where there were tables under the trees, and one could sit in the shade, sip wine, and criticize the play. The riffraff made do with the field north of Linney Gate, where they competed for space with the wrestlers, the archers, laundry that some housewife had neglected to bring in, and the sundry horse out to graze.
It was almost warm enough now that one could do without a coat, unusual for March, and Stephen was actually sweating as they descended the road to the Pigeon Inn. He paused at Saint Leonard’s chapel, which occupied the southern corner where Linney Street came in from the west, to wait for Gilbert to catch up. He was glad for a the rest, since his bad foot had begun to pang from all the walking. The inn lay opposite Linney Street from the chapel, and its front yard was filled with people enjoying the unexpectedly warm weather and the sun, which they hardly ever got to see. Although these were mainly soldiers who were encamped in the castle meadow and people who lived outside the town, and thus not the Broken Shield’s natural prey, Gilbert regarded the crowd with envy, which broke into positive gloom at the sight of the large number of bowlers in the inn’s back garden. There were six games going on at once and the tables along the river were filled.
“Do you think Edith would allow you to turn the Shield’s back garden into a bowling alley?” Stephen asked.
“I wouldn’t mind a bowling alley, but where would we put the woodpile and the privy? Besides, the yard’s not flat enough. We’d have stones flying down to the river. Imagine the mess and confusion. Ah! There he is!” Gilbert pointed to a tall figure across the pitches just rising from a table. Leofwine Wattepas wiped his hands on a towel and strode toward one of the alleys. “We must hurry if we are to catch him.”
Gilbert pushed through the gate a
nd rushed toward Wattepas.
Wattepas had already taken up a black oval bowling stone and was eyeing his first cast at the wooden cone that was the target many yards away when Stephen caught up with Gilbert. Wattepas was taller even than Stephen, who towered over most men. He had massive shoulders and muscular arms that would have done a mason’s apprentice proud, and large hands with thick fingers, not the sort you’d think suitable for a goldsmith whose work was often delicate and fine. He was in his middle forties, and already fully gray-headed with a thick mane that hung to his shoulders and a neatly trimmed gray beard that gave him a distinguished look. For a man whose wife was as sour as Lucy Wattepas, he was unexpectedly genial, with a smile that often lingered on his lips and sparkled his blue eyes.
“Well, Sir Stephen, Master Wistwode,” Wattepas said, “ordinarily I’d say this was a pleasure, but you are clearly up to something, and that means hurt and despair are not far off. What can I do for you?”
“Sorry to interrupt your game, Master Wattepas,” Stephen said. “I only have a few questions.”
“It can’t be about that unfortunate castle guard, can it? Or has someone else died since I left the house this morning? My wife hasn’t murdered one of the servants, has she?”
“It’s nothing like that. It has to do with your business with the monks of Greater Wenlock.”
“Ah, that. I’m not at liberty to speak of it. Sworn to secrecy and all that. Could have my tongue ripped out, you know. The earl is a formidable enemy when crossed, although I think you already know that from your dealings with him.”
“I’m afraid that you’ll have to speak of it to us. We’re charged with recovering the missing relic.”
“I see. Probably not a task you relish, eh? Well, there’s not much I can tell you. If you’ve spoke to the monks, you’ll already know of my part in it.”
“There are some things they do not remember.”
Wattepas sighed. “I see there is no way I’ll escape interrogation. Perhaps we could go somewhere no one can overhear.”
He handed the stone to another player, and led Stephen and Gilbert to the banks of the river, but not before snaring a cup from a table.
“Mind holding this?” Wattepas asked Gilbert. He held out the cup to Gilbert. Then he unlimbered himself and began to urinate in the river.
“I say, Master Wattepas!” Gilbert exclaimed. “Not in the river. People drink that water.”
“Oh, yes, well, some do, don’t they,” Wattepas said, not sounding much concerned but adjusting his aim to the base of a willow. He rearranged his clothes and recovered his cup. He upended the cup. “That’s better. So, Sir Stephen, what is it you want to know?”
“You say neither you nor any of your boys spoke to anyone about the work done for Earl Percival.”
“I didn’t exactly say that, but no. No one spoke of it.”
“You’re sure.”
“I certainly didn’t, and I’d have the hide off any of my boys if they did.”
“But you cannot be sure.”
“I trust them. If I tell them to keep quiet about something, they damned well better keep quiet.”
“Is there any possibility that someone else might have found out?”
“I don’t see how.” Wattepas stroked his chin. “Well, wait. A fellow came in the shop while the monks were there, now that I think about it. Monks in a goldsmith’s shop are a novelty, as you can imagine, so he gave them the eye. But I don’t recall that they said anything to him that gave the game away. They’re a silent lot. Not much given to idle speech.”
“Do you recall who that person was?”
“Never seen the fellow before. He was one of the lords who came at the summons. A lesser one, if his clothes were any indication.” Wattepas’ eyes wandered over Stephen from feet to the top of his head. “Better off than you are, though.”
“Most people are better off than me.”
“A pity. Such a well turned out fellow you are, too, sir. But I am aware of your . . . problem. So unfortunate.”
“Does everybody in town know?”
“I’m afraid so. Hard to keep secrets in Ludlow, you know. Small town. Everybody knows everybody else’s business. Fart green cheese and everyone will know about it by the end of the day.”
“Except this.”
“This? Oh, right. The bones. Strange they’d just disappear like that.”
“Earl Percival is most distressed,” Gilbert said.
“He must be, if he’s engaged Sir Stephen to find them, after their unpleasantness last winter.”
“It wasn’t his idea,” Stephen said.
“Randall put you up to it?” Wattepas asked.
“After Prince Edward assigned him the commission.”
“Randall always likes to have someone else do his dirty work.”
“I wouldn’t say that,” Stephen said.
“Of course, you wouldn’t. A man can’t speak ill of his lord, can he?”
“Not in public, although he’s not my lord.”
“Ah, yes, he’s your employer. A different kettle of fish, but not that different, eh?”
“You haven’t any idea of this fellow’s name, do you?”
“No. I never spoke to the man.”
“Did anyone?”
“One of my boys. I was too busy. Couldn’t trust anyone else to fix those stones to the bones, you know. Delicate business.”
“I’m sure it must have been.”
“It required us to drill holes through them. For the pins, you see. You can’t just paste that stuff on and expect it to stay for any length of time. You’d have thought I was drilling holes through the monks themselves, from the look of them.”
“I understand they were distressed.”
“I’ll say they were. They wouldn’t let me touch the bones with my bare fingers, did you now that? Had to wear gloves the whole time. You’ve no idea how that interferes with your ability to do close work.”
“I can imagine.”
“It must have been a tiny drill,” Gilbert said.
“Of course it was a tiny drill!” Wattepas said. “I’m the only man within a hundred miles capable of such work! That’s why Earl Percival came to me in the first place.”
“I’m aware of your reputation,” Stephen said.
“The things were a masterpiece when I was done,” Wattepas said, “the settings, the stones, everything. Work that should live through the ages! Gone now!” He wagged a finger in Stephen’s face. “You better find them, sir!”
“I’m trying. Which of your boys dealt with this person?”
“Wace over there,” Wattepas said, pointing to a short black-haired man about Stephen’s age standing at the edge of one of the bowling alleys, stone bowl in hand, waiting for his chance to cast.
“I shall speak to him then,” Stephen said, “and let you get back to your game.”
Wace cast his stone as Stephen and Gilbert approached. The stone rolled upon the grass, reminding Stephen of a wagon wheel that had come loose and taken off on its own. The stone passed the wooden cone, collided with another stone lying close by, wobbled, then fell on its side. Wace clapped a hand to his head and groaned.
“That’s it, then,” one of Wace’s companions said. “You owe me tuppence.”
Wace stalked by Stephen and Gilbert as if they weren’t there and collapsed on a bench. He dug into his purse and tossed the coins at the companion. “I hope you choke on them.”
“I’ll be choking on wine!” the companion laughed as he pocketed the pennies.
“That’s a lot to lose on a single bowl,” Stephen said.
Wace regarded Stephen sourly. “It’s not been my day.”
“Can I buy you a drink?” Stephen asked.
Wace brightened at the offer. “I wouldn’t mind that, sir.”
“Gilbert,” Stephen said, “please fetch this fellow a cup of wine, if you please?”
“Me?” Gilbert asked. “Why me?”
“You a
re my servant, after all.”
“I am a clerk, not a servant.”
“Well, you’re carrying the money. Be a good fellow.” The truth was, Randall had been slow with his wages again, and he had only a farthing left in his purse.
“It’s easy to be generous with other people’s money,” Gilbert grumbled.
“I’ll pay you back.”
Gilbert made no move toward the inn, where the proprietor could be seen through the windows dispensing wine and ale in addition to his opinions about politics rather too loudly for his own good. Instead, Gilbert waved to draw the attention of one of the serving girls.
Stephen sat down beside Wace. He noticed Ralph Turling at the farthest bowling alley. Turling saw Stephen at the same time; he raised his cup and nodded. Stephen nodded in return. Turling returned to his conversation with a fellow bowler, who had a stack of coins on the bench beside them. Turling laughed and hefted his bowling stone.
“You’re not here for the bowls or the drink,” Wace said. “I saw you talking to Wattepas.”
“No. This is the same old business, I’m afraid.”
“I already told you I didn’t work on them. That was the master. He didn’t trust anyone else on a commission as delicate and important as that.”
“So I gathered from him. I’m interested in a slightly different aspect of the matter. You attended a fellow who came in the shop while the monks were there.”
“I did? I hardly remember.”
“Think. It wasn’t that long ago. Only last week.”
“The days run together. We have so many people in the shop, especially now, with the army in town. It’s hard to recall.”
The fellow across the table who had won the bet with Wace must have overheard them. He said, “Come on, Wace. How could you forget that arrogant shit? It was that lord from the east.”
