by Jason Vail
“Was it, Oslar?” Wace asked. “I’ve quite forgotten.” He accepted a cup from a serving girl who had come over. He downed the contents without pausing for breath. Movement upon Corve Street caught his eye, where a column of soldiers was trudging toward Corve Bridge. He looked alarmed and put down the cup. “Your honor, if you’ll excuse me, I have some pressing business.” He pushed through the gate and strode quickly toward Corve Street.
“You recall him?” Stephen asked Oslar, another journeyman, whom he remembered seeing in Wattepas’ shop.
“He came in to sell some silver plate. Personal stuff. Even had a family crest on the bottom. Very eager to do it, too, by the bargain he accepted. We were able to get it for less than it’s worth. Well made stuff, too. A pity to have to melt it down.”
“He was there when the emeralds were affixed to the relic?”
“I’m certain of it. Wace here and I both waited upon the fellow.”
“Did he show any particular interest in it?”
“No, I don’t think so. Well, he did remark on how amazing the emeralds were. They were quite large, and enormously valuable. FitzAllen paid a small fortune for them.”
“And you recall his name?” Stephen asked.
“Parfet was his name. Richard Parfet.”
Chapter 9
“Can’t this wait until later?” Ralph Turling asked.
“It can wait until you have made your cast,” Stephen said.
Turling seemed to want to argue, but gave up the idea and nodded. He stepped to the pitch and cast his stone. It rolled toward the wooden cone, collided with it and fell on its side within inches of the target. Turling stepped back with a smile and said to his opponent, “See if you can do better than that!”
As the opponent stepped up to the line, Turling poured another cup of ale. “So, what do you want?”
“Can you tell me if Simon Jameson was on watch Thursday night?” Stephen asked.
There was an odd flicker of emotion in Turling’s eyes: just there for a moment and then it was gone. Stephen wasn’t even sure that he had seen it. Turling said, “Why do you want to know?”
“Humor me. It may be important, it may not.”
“Of course, he was. He had the middle watch, same as Ormyn. Is there some connection?”
“I don’t know yet. Perhaps. We shall see. Also, do you know a Richard Parfet?”
“I know of him. We’ve met a few times but have hardly spoken.”
“Recently he sold much silver plate to Wattepas.”
“Why is that a concern of yours?”
“I am curious as to why.”
“I’d say it was none of your business.”
“Still, would you have some idea?”
Turling shrugged. “He’s in debt, why else? Everybody’s in debt these days. It’s damned hard to keep up appearances.”
“Are his troubles more acute than ordinary?”
“I’d say that’s probably the case if he’s selling silver rather than pawning it.”
Stephen rubbed his chin as he contemplated this. “But you have no first-hand knowledge of this?”
“Do you think Parfet pours out his troubles to me?” Turling asked. “Are you through? Can I return to my game?”
“Thank you, Sir Ralph. I appreciate your time.”
In the armies of Stephen’s acquaintance, the marshal and his deputies assigned the spaces for the tents in order to ensure adequate lanes and passages for traffic. But this army had come together haphazardly, and no such precautions had been taken, so the encampment in the outer bailey was a jumble. No one knew where anyone was, and it took more than an hour just to learn that Parfet had in fact been allowed to camp here rather than down below in the meadow.
“And were can I find him?” Stephen asked one of the deputy marshals, exasperated that what should have been a simple task was taking so long.
“Oh, he’s gone.”
“What do you mean, gone?”
“As in not here.”
“But he was here this morning.”
“So he was.”
“But he is not now.”
“That’s what I said.”
“Where did he go?” It was unbelievable that Parfet would have packed up and departed.
“He’s been sent north. Left this morning.”
“Where north?”
“Montgomery. You’ve heard of it, I assume,” the deputy marshal said at Stephen’s expression, which managed to convey incredulity and disappointment at the same time.
“Of course, I’ve heard of it.”
“Are you finished? I have so much to do.”
“I suppose this means we shall have to go to Montgomery, then,” Gilbert said without enthusiasm. “Not a prospect I relish.”
“Why would you think we need to go to Montgomery?”
“To question Parfet, of course.”
“I was thinking of having him arrested and brought back here.”
“Do you really think you could get the Prince to issue such an order?”
“He’s eager for the return of the relic. Why not?”
“My boy, you’ve been caught up in enough intrigue already that you must have an inkling why not.”
“I’m not sure I follow.”
“Let me make it plain for you then. Parfet is a retainer of the Mortimers. If he is arrested and put to questioning, which will not be gentle, on the thin evidence we have, it runs the risk of offending Earl Roger Mortimer. Do you really suppose the Prince wants to take that chance, given the present political climate?”
“I was hoping not to have to make the journey as much as you.”
Gilbert sighed. “No straight-thinking man would wish it. Montgomery is the veritable wilderness. Poking about there asking impertinent questions is a good way to get killed. If Parfet is our man, he’d just have to say we fell off horses, or the Welsh got us. Not a risk I would like to run.”
“I would not want your death on my conscience. You can stay behind.”
“And leave you to your own devices? Imagine the trouble that will ensue.” Yet there was a note of relief in Gilbert’s voice. “You’ll have to be very careful.”
“Perhaps there’s a way to give myself some protection.” He picked up the pace. Gilbert hurried after him.
“What, may I ask, is this plan?” Gilbert asked between gasps as they neared the gate to the inner bailey.
“And have you dash it with objections? You shall just have to wait and see.”
“Oh, dear. This cannot be good.”
With Prince Edward in residence at the castle, guards stood at the foot of the stairway leading to the door to the hall, admitting only those who had business with the magnates commanding the assembling army.
One guard conveyed Stephen’s request to the occupants of the hall, while the other kept an eye on him and Gilbert. Presently, the guard returned and waved from the top of the stairs that the Prince had agreed to see him. Stephen climbed the stairs. Gilbert attempted to follow, but the guard above said, “Not you,” and he settled back to wait some more.
A stone hearth, ten feet long by five wide, burned high in the center of the hall. The place was deserted except for a group of a dozen men seated about the table upon the platform to the right. Their voices echoed with talk about supplies and a shortage of wagons and horses to pull them, and a load of corn that had not come in from Birmingham as promised.
Stephen stopped at the edge of the platform and waited to be noticed. Finally Prince Edward motioned from him to approach. “Do you have anything to report?” Edward asked.
“I have a request, your grace,” Stephen said.
“Oh,” Edward said. The interest he had shown slipped behind a mask of politeness.
“I need a letter, your grace,” Stephen said.
“A letter? What about?”
“A summons to Richard Parfet at Montgomery, commanding him to return to Ludlow.”
Edward blinked. “Why do I need to summon Parfet? I ne
ed him where he is. The men in Montgomery threaten eastern Powys and preoccupy a large Welsh force which otherwise might be used to strengthen the array which I will face when I march. I cannot spare him.”
“I need to question him. I cannot do it at Montgomery. He needs to be isolated from his friends. Otherwise, there is no hope of getting the truth from him.”
“This is about the relic, is it not?”
“Yes, your grace.”
“What’s he got to do with it?”
“He may know something about what happened to it.”
“I find that hard to believe. Why can’t you just ride up there and ask him yourself? That’s much easier than having him return.”
“He can’t because he is afraid,” Percival FitzAllen said.
“Afraid of what?” Edward asked.
“Perhaps of being murdered.”
“By Parfet? What nonsense!”
“It could prove dangerous for Attebrook to ride up there and ask questions that may be embarrassing,” FitzAllen said. “If Parfet is our man.” He smiled. “But then if Attebrook happens to die, that will give us our proof, won’t it?”
Edward pursed his lips as he regarded FitzAllen, but did not speak immediately.
“At least give me the letter as a pretext,” Stephen said, “so Parfet will know I come from you. That way he’ll realize I’ll be missed if I don’t return.”
Edward nodded. “All right, then. Just for him alone. He’s to leave his men behind.”
“Of course, sir.”
“See my chancellor. He’ll take care of you.”
Chapter 10
Stephen did not expect to find a clerk handy since it was Sunday, but it turned out that the Prince was prone to dispatch letters at all times of the day and night. So at least one clerk had to be available to minister to his whims.
You would think that a simple letter like the one Stephen had in mind could be written quickly, but you’d be wrong. The clerk assigned to take down the letter either had wax clogging his ears or he was indifferent to Stephen’s dictation, for it took three tries before the clerk had finished the letter to Stephen’s satisfaction. Beyond the matter of phrasing, a sticking point was the clerk’s insistence that the letter be in Latin rather than court French. “Proper letters are written in Latin,” the clerk had said.
“I doubt Parfet reads Latin, or that there’s anyone about him who does,” Stephen said. “When the Prince writes to his commanders, doesn’t he write in French?”
“I suppose he might. I don’t know. I don’t copy those letters. Wilfred over there, he takes care of those.”
Stephen would have asked Wilfred’s opinion, but he was asleep at his writing desk, which had been set up in what had been part of the guard room in the old hall of the gate tower. It seemed rude to wake him. Stephen stepped over to move an inkpot perilously close to the man’s elbow. “Well, do this one in French, or I’ll box your ears. I’m losing my patience.”
The clerk was not impressed by the threat, but he composed the letter in French with only a misspelling and a grammatical error that had to be corrected, which meant copying the letter over again, since no mistakes could be allowed to mar a letter going out under the Prince’s seal.
The Prince, of course, never saw the letter. The chancellor, sitting several places down from the Prince at the table in the hall, read it over and then applied the Prince’s seal. “There you are,” he said, handing over the letter.
“Many thanks, your honor,” Stephen said.
“Don’t thank me. Thank Prince Edward.”
But Stephen did not have the opportunity. By the time he had his letter, supper had already begun in the hall, and he knew he would not be allowed to interrupt.
Stephen collected Gilbert at the far side of the drawbridge connecting the two baileys.
“Got your letter?” Gilbert asked. “Now we should find a notary and make out your will. You’re going to need it.”
“You have no faith in this plan?”
“Oh, yes, yes, plenty of faith. I am merely suggesting that you prepare for contingencies. Besides, once you are killed, a will should make disposal of your property less trouble. And you have your son to think of, after all. Consider what will become of him.”
The mention of Stephen’s son, Christopher, brought a pang of guilt. Last autumn, not expecting a war to break out between the English and the Welsh, Stephen had sent the boy, who was going on two now, to a distant cousin in Wales for what he had thought would be safe keeping. As a single man without prospects, he had no means of caring for a child himself. He had not seen the boy since then. “You are worse than Harry at making a person feel badly.”
“Here, now, I am your conscience. Harry is merely a pest.”
“A will.” Stephen smiled slightly. “Now that you mention it, I should make provision for Harry. A few soap shavings should do the trick, don’t you think?”
“I don’t know why you would be compelled to do that, but Harry will like that, especially now that he has taken such a fancy to soap.”
“Harry and soap. I’d never have thought to put the two words together until recently.”
“Neither did I. You have created a monster, you know. God knows where it will lead.”
Stephen had some idea already where it was leading. He wondered if Gilbert had seen the same things he had. He supposed not, otherwise he and Edith would put a stop to what was happening right under their noses.
They walked on in silence the rest of the way to the Broken Shield.
Supper had wrapped up, and a glance in the windows indicated that Edith, Jennie, and the servants were in a fury of cleaning, wiping tables, and sweeping floors. Gilbert ducked down so he could not be seen, but Stephen did not follow that example. Edith squinted at Stephen as he went on to the gate as if she suspected something was up. But she did not pause with her broom, and Gilbert made it safely to the yard without being called to some chore.
With supper over, there was no chance of getting anything to eat in the hall, so they repaired to the kitchen in the hope that there were leftovers, in this case white bean soup with a few carrots visible in the broth and smoked haddock.
“How I love smoked haddock,” Gilbert sighed without conviction as they settled onto the bench outside the door to the stable alongside Harry, who was taking the sun.
“Haddock’s better than cod,” Stephen said, his mouth full of haddock. “Although it could use a little salt.”
“It has too much salt!” Gilbert said, breaking his haddock in two and preparing to take a bite. “That’s its problem! Enough to choke a horse!”
“That’s unfair to the horse,” Harry said. “Because it won’t choke you. I love haddock, myself. Can’t get enough of it.”
“You shut up,” Gilbert said, chewing glumly.
“What’s got into him?” Harry asked.
“He’s unhappy that I don’t plan to put him in my will,” Stephen said.
“What do you need a will for?” Harry asked.
“Because he’s going off to die,” Gilbert said, swallowing his wad of haddock.
“Why’s that?”
Stephen explained what had happened during the morning and about the letter that lay on the bench beside him.
“Well,” Harry said, lifting his cup, “here’s to a swift and painless death, then. It’s a good thing you’ve paid back the money you owed.”
“Swift and painless deaths are always preferred,” Stephen said, tucking into the bean soup.
“Yes, the other sort are such a bother,” Harry said.
“What have you got there?” Stephen noticed what looked like his stirrup strap lying in Harry’s lap. There was no sign of the stirrup iron. Instead, the strap seemed attached to a piece of leather.
“It’s your stirrup, you idiot,” Harry said. “What does it look like?”
“Not like any stirrup I’ve ever seen.” Stephen picked up the strap.
“That’s because it�
�s been cunningly modified.”
“Really?”
But the stirrup had indeed been changed. A shaped panel of leather had been attached with leather thongs across one side of the stirrup iron.
“I’d have used rivets, but I don’t have any,” Harry said. “I hope the ties hold.”
“What’s the point of the leather?” Gilbert asked, taking another bite of smoked haddock. “Keep off the rain?”
“That should be obvious, even to you. To keep his foot from sliding through the iron,” Harry said.
“I shall have to try it out,” Stephen said. He put the bowl to his mouth and drained the last of the soup.
He went into the stable and took down his saddle, which he draped on a sawhorse by the door. He attached the stirrup leather, and then climbed aboard the saddle from the right side as he usually did. Harry swung forward and guided his maimed foot into the stirrup.
“Hold on,” Harry said. “It needs some adjustment. My, you have such big feet, even without your toes. I never noticed before. There, that should do it.”
Stephen stood up in the stirrups. The iron on his left rested just before his heel, which is to say, about half way along what remained of the foot. This was too far back from where a stirrup iron should set. He felt the front of his boot pressing against the leather cap.
“Seems pretty secure,” Stephen said, surprised at how good it felt, although he was not yet convinced it would do. “Thanks, Harry. What’s this going to cost me?”
“Ah, yes, the price. I hadn’t thought of that. I’ll let you know after I’ve tallied my costs.”
“Are you sure you have enough fingers?” Gilbert asked. “If you’re forced to use your toes, you’ll be in a pickle.”
“I’ll just borrow yours,” Harry said.
“Gilbert!” they heard Edith call from one of the windows overlooking the yard. “Come here! You’re needed!”
“Oh, dear,” Gilbert said. “I’ve been found out. Coming, dear!”
“Nothing gets past Edith,” Harry said as Gilbert retreated toward the inn. “She was just waiting for him to finish supper.”
