by Jason Vail
“I daresay, I have to agree with you for a change. Has she noticed what’s happening between you and Jennie?”
“Nothing’s happening between me and Jennie.”
“Nothing? You’re sure?” Stephen climbed off the saddle. “Well, let me know what this bauble cost you.”
“You won’t say anything about your suspicions?”
“They are, after all, only suspicions. It would not do to speak of them without proof. Unfair to the girl.”
“Thanks, Steve.”
“Don’t mention it.”
Chapter 11
Stephen had never been to Montgomery, and he had only a vague idea where it was: some thirty miles away to the northwest beyond Bishop’s Castle. This made for a long day’s ride, so he was up before dawn, dressed and packed, and in the stable saddling one of his mares. The commotion woke Harry, who clumped out of his stall, grumbling at being awakened, but who settled down when Jennie came out with a platter bearing their breakfast.
Jennie handed Harry several whole pennies, which he dropped in the begging cup hanging on a string around his neck. He in turn gave her something wrapped in a linen rag. She took pains to ensure that Stephen did not see what was concealed by the rag, muttering, “I hope you have a safe journey, sir,” and with a glance at Harry fled back to the house. Harry watched her go with what Stephen thought might be wistfulness, but the expression vanished when Harry realized he was under observation.
Stephen settled on the bench beside Harry and ate leftover white bean soup, which was cold and thick as mud, but still surprisingly good for bean soup, while the mare and the stallion, which would serve as his pack horse, went at their oats. Horses did not like being put to work this early, but if they were well fed Stephen was less likely to get complaints from them.
They finished breakfast as the sky brightened. It was now just before sunrise and nearly time for the town gates to open.
“You know the way?” Harry asked, putting on the thick leather gloves that protected his hands.
“Well enough.”
“They say that once you get past Ireland there’s a great drop where the world ends.”
“I’m not planning to go that far.”
“You never know. Don’t take any wrong turns or shortcuts.”
“I’ll be careful.”
“Well, I’ll be seeing you, then.”
“Right,” Stephen said.
Harry seemed about to say something further, but since the gates would open soon and he could not afford to miss the early traffic, he nodded and swung across the yard.
Stephen led the horses out of the stable.
He was just about to mount the mare when Gilbert and Edith emerged. Edith was carrying a small satchel. She held it out to Stephen. “To tide you over during the day,” she said.
“Thank you, Edith,” Stephen said. He put the satchel in his saddle bag.
Then he gathered the reins at the withers and put his left foot in the stirrup in preparation to mounting from the left rather than the right, as he had grown accustomed to doing. Gilbert’s eyebrows rose at this and he seemed to hold his breath, as if expecting some disaster. But Stephen swung into the saddle, his foot safe and secure.
“I was anxious about that,” Gilbert said.
“It seems to work well.”
“I’m glad of that. You be careful.”
“It’s not going to be that bad. Don’t worry.”
“I hope so.”
“There is something you can do while I’m away.”
“What’s that?”
“Look into the matter of Ormyn, if you will. Let’s not let the trail get too cold. The army will be leaving in a few days, and our killer might go with it.”
Gilbert glanced at Edith. “I shall ask around.”
“Good. I shouldn’t be more than a week.”
Stephen turned the mare’s head toward the gate to Bell Lane.
He rode up Broad Street with the stallion in tow, through the bull ring and toward Corve Gate, standing now and then while trotting just to get the feel of things. He would also have swung his sword about as well, but there were too many people watching for that.
Corve Gate was open by the time Stephen passed through it and headed down Corve Street toward the Bromfield Road. He felt content, despite his destination. It was always good to be on horseback going somewhere even if it might be into danger — especially if it might be into danger. He remembered the times he and his friend Rodrigo had ridden out on raids and occasionally to battle, and the laughter he and the others, who had been like brothers, had shared. All that was gone now, swept away by fire and sword. He wondered if he would ever experience such things again.
Corve Street curved gently right before its sharp bend in the distance where the road crossed the Corve, and as Stephen came round the bend he saw that a party of monks leading five donkeys occupied the road ahead. Stephen broke into a trot to catch up with them.
The monks of Greater Wenlock heard him coming and faces turned in his direction, then abruptly away. Stephen slowed up beside the lead donkey, which was being led by Brother Adolphus and ridden by the prior. Brother Anthony looked ill, his face ashen. He plucked at his habit and adjusted a string around his neck which was just visible beneath his collar, then pulled his hood over his head.
“Is the prior all right?” Stephen asked Adolphus.
“He’s fine. Just a little under the weather this morning,” Adolphus said, staring straight ahead.
“You’re returning to Greater Wenlock?”
“That is our intent.”
“But you’re alone.” Because of the unrest in the March and the frequent chance of robbery, most travelers chose to journey in parties of people heading in the same direction.
“We’re anxious to be home.”
“I could escort you,” Stephen said. The route to Greater Wenlock was off his path to the northeast. He realized that the monks might not have been able to find anyone going in that direction.
“That won’t be necessary. We’ve nothing of value. No one will bother us.”
“You’re sure?”
“Quite sure.”
That seemed to exhaust Brother Adolphus’ interest in conversation, and they marched on in silence.
As the road turned left to cross the wooden bridge over the Corve, Adolphus asked, “Where are you bound, by the way?” as if he was a bit startled that Stephen was still with them.
“Montgomery,” Stephen said.
“What takes you there? The search for our relic?”
“Yes.”
“An odd place to look for it.”
“I go where the evidence leads.”
“Hmm. Well, we shall pray you find it.”
“Haven’t you already done so?”
“Certainly. Of course we have. At every opportunity.”
“I am glad of your prayers. I’m afraid that it might take a miracle.”
“A miracle.” Adolphus stared into the distance with a smile. “Yes. But Saint Milburga is quite capable of miracles when they are needed.”
Two miles outside town, they arrived at the road to Stanton Lacy, which with the usual twists and turns of an English road ended up at Greater Wenlock. Without a word of good-bye or even good luck, the monks turned onto that lesser road and marched north toward the hills in the distance.
Stephen watched them go until they passed around the bend. He was alone. No one was upon either road or in the fields. If he was going to indulge himself, this might be the best place to do it. He tied the stallion to the branch of an apple tree growing by the road. He brought the mare to the center of the road and drew his sword.
He started with simple maneuvers, turning on the forehand and spinning on the haunches while remaining seated. He kept up these maneuvers, imagining he was surrounded by enemies who were trying to get behind him. Now and then he rose up in the stirrups and struck at these imaginary foes. Satisfied with this, he pushed the horse in
to a gallop up the road toward Greater Wenlock, standing as he raced onward, sword forward to pierce anyone who might get in his way. At the bend, he reined up and attacked a large silver birch growing by the roadside, cutting at the trunk but pulling the blows so they did not hit and damage his sword. He stopped after a short time so as not to tire the horse, for they had a long way to go.
He shortened the stirrup leathers by a couple of holes so that he would put more weight into the stirrups, keeping his bad foot more secure. It felt like old times, almost. He would never be completely whole, but for the first time since his wound, he did not feel so much a cripple.
Collecting the stallion, Stephen continued on to Bishop’s Castle.
The road between Ludlow and Shrewsbury was wide and well-traveled, but the road to Bishop’s Castle was little more than a cart track that wandered off to the west. Stephen recognized the turn because he had been down it before. It was the same turn he and Gilbert had made on their way to Clun during the winter. But Clun lay at the end of another turn-off about a quarter mile on, where the remains of a Roman road branched away, something to marvel at since it ran straight as a bow-shot, unlike the typical English road, which meandered like a drunken man on his way to the privy.
It was easy to get lost on such tracks. The land was sparsely settled here. There were no villages, nor even collections of hovels that might aspire to village status, just isolated houses on farmsteads here and there in the Welsh fashion. Occasionally, the track petered out to a footpath before resuming again, and there were frequent branchings which were the bane of any traveler on the lesser ways, since you could never tell which was the right fork. If you picked the wrong one, it would take you miles out of your way and add hours of toil to the journey.
The road climbed over hills and dipped into valleys, the way going higher and higher, woods pressing on either side, now and then opening to fields sometimes in wheat but often in grass and dotted with sheep, the herdsmen apparently heedless of the peril of the Welsh.
Stephen could have pushed the horses to make better time, since he was anxious to reach Montgomery, but he had not given any thought to the hills, which taxed the mare, and by the time the road dipped into the final valley and Stephen caught sight of Bishop’s Castle in the distance, she was tired. Although he had a crick in his back and the usual sore bottom, he could have continued. But one had to be mindful of the horses and not abuse them. So even though it was midafternoon, he elected to spend the night. Twenty miles in a day would have to be good enough.
As a messenger of the Prince, he was entitled to a place at the castle, which saved on the expense of an inn and included supper and fodder for the horses.
In the morning when Stephen sought directions to Montgomery, one of the castle guards told him he had heard the night before while drinking in the town that a pair of Welsh drovers were returning there, wallowing in money, having sold a small herd of cattle to another man who planned to drive them to London. “There’s not but one good road between here and there, though,” the guard said, “so you can hardly miss it. But they’ll be glad for the company. You might, too. They’re a jolly pair. Never laughed so hard in my life.”
Stephen was fortunate to catch the drovers at an inn off the market south of the castle before they set out, owing to the fact they slept late after the celebration of their success.
The pair proved to be a father and son who held land at Stanlawe, a village apparently not far from Montgomery, although the explanation was garbled by the fact that Stephen could only get Welsh out of the older man and the younger one was so hung over that he refused to speak in more than grunts. If they were glad for the company, they did not give any indication of it, nor of the good humor the guard had led Stephen to expect.
Since the drovers were on foot, it took more than three hours to reach Montgomery, where the lime-washed castle, brilliantly white in the spring sunlight, stood upon its high crag over the town.
Stephen learned from the castle gate ward that his quarry, Sir Richard Parfet, was not there. “Sir Richard was ordered to outpost duty,” the ward said at Stephen’s inquiry.
“Outpost duty? What does that mean?”
“He’s gone to Old Montgomery.”
“Old Montgomery? There’s an Old Montgomery?”
“It’s the old castle. Pretty much a ruin now, but it gives us a close watch on the ford of the Severn.”
“How far off is it?” Stephen asked, hoping it would not mean he had a great distance to go. He was hungry and the time of day and the odors from the kitchen indicated that dinner was near.
“About a mile and a half. Take the left fork outside town. If you’ve a mind to, you can see it from the top of the west tower. It’s the bump on the hill to the northwest.”
“Watch for a bump on a hill.”
“Something like that. Be sure not to miss it. If you keep going, you’ll end up in Wales. You don’t want that! The Welsh’ll have your head off!”
“Thanks. As it’s the only head I have, I’m anxious not to lose it.”
Old Montgomery proved to be rather more than a bump on a hill when viewed close up, but it was falling into ruin, as the gate ward had warned. It was an old motte-and-bailey fortress of wood and earth that might have been grand once. It had not one, but two encircling embankments topped by palisades. While perhaps this had meant strong defenses at one time, the outer walls were gray and rotten, showing gaps in places where the planks had fallen away and had not been replaced. Stephen noted these failings with a professional eye as he came around another ditched embankment to reach it. This neighboring enclosure had once contained a village, but there was nothing left of it but the remains of houses, some of which had been recently burned. The inner palisade of the fortress was in better shape, showing some sign of recent repair, yet even here the look of decay and neglect had not been dispelled. There were old posts jutting from the ground by the main gate which suggested towers had flanked either side, but the towers were gone now. Only a wall walk defended the gate from above.
The gate was closed, since it was only a little over a quarter mile from here to the Severn, which marked the border between Wales and England. So close, in fact, that it was easy to imagine mobs of screaming Welshmen rushing up the hill and catching people unaware, which perhaps they had done not too long ago, if the damage to the village was any indication.
A guard looked down at Stephen as he stopped at the gate. “What do you want?” the guard called down as he leaned on his spear, stroked his black moustache, and spat, the gob falling perilously close.
Stephen recognized the man as one of those outside the Spicers’ wine shop, and he suspected he had been recognized in turn. He said, “A word with your commander, Sir Richard.”
“What sort of word?”
Stephen was not used to being questioned so sharply by someone of a lower estate, and while he had lost just about everything, he still had some pride left. And a man having only pride to nourish him sometimes values it more than another man might. So he reacted more strongly than he might otherwise have done. “I carry a letter from Prince Edward for him, and if you don’t open the gate right now, you disrespectful son-of-a-bitch, I’ll climb up there and stuff it up your ass.”
“He won’t be able to read it then.”
“It won’t matter. I’ll tell him what’s in it.”
“Dogface,” the guard called back into the bailey, “get off that hay pile and open the gate. The boss has a visitor. Some toff who claims to be from the Prince.”
There was a long pause, as if it took some effort for Dogface to rouse himself from that hay pile. Finally, the bar thudded and the gates opened, the iron hinges shrieking.
Dogface, another of the crew outside the wine shop, stood aside as Stephen rode into the bailey. There was no mistaking how he had got that name: although lean and hard, like any soldier, his jowls sagged beneath squinting eyes, giving him the appearance of an aging bulldog, except where most bu
lldogs had a mouthful of teeth, Dogface had only his upper canines, for someone had knocked out his upper and lower front teeth. Dogface looked Stephen over as he dismounted. “He doesn’t look like a toff to me, Greg,” Dogface said to the man on the wall walk. “Seems a bit . . . careworn.”
“He talks like one,” Greg said.
“You’re a knight then?” Dogface asked Stephen.
“I am. Where’s Sir Richard?”
“He’s round the barn, yonder. By the chapel.” Dogface gestured toward a small building that did not look very chapel-like, a corner of which was visible behind a square barn to the right. “It would be our chapel, sir,” he added, “but we got no priest nor vicar. Godless bunch, we are.” He winked and smiled, which did nothing to approve his appearance.
“See to my horses, if you please,” Stephen said, handing Dogface the mare’s reins and the stallion’s halter rope.
Dogface had more sense than Greg to be disrespectful, especially since Stephen was in reach, armed, and armored, and had the look of a man who could do a lot of harm if he wanted to. It was easy to be insolent to strangers when you were eight feet above their heads; it was another thing when they stood right next to you with one hand on a sword pommel. But taking care of horses was beneath one even in Dogface’s lowly state, and he shouted for a servant to come fetch the horses while Stephen marched around the barn.
Stephen heard women giggling as he reached the corner of the barn. He was taken a bit aback at this, since a frontier fortress was not a place where women were usually found, even among the servants. Stephen could think of only one good reason why they might be here, and his suspicions were confirmed as he came around the barn.
There were four of them, all young and all rather good-looking, and three of them, at least, still had their clothes fully on. One girl had her blouse open so that her breasts could take the sun and whatever attentions men hereabout might like to give them. She sat on the lap of a fellow with white blond hair who was gentry by the neat and combed state of his hair, his trimmed red beard, and the cut of his clothes. Two others sat on a log on either side of someone Stephen recognized; the name came to him as he stood there, Melmerby. The fourth girl was fumbling with a bowling stone, Parfet at her side. She paused from taking aim at the wooden cone which was the target of the game when Stephen came into view, and dropped the stone, just missing her feet. This brought a laugh from Melmerby and the blond man.
