Saint Milburga's Bones (A Stephen Attebrook mystery Book 5)

by Jason Vail

  “Something bothering him?”

  “He had wife trouble — although I’d done more than enough to warn him about her. But he was an infatuated fool, like most men led about by his balls rather than his head.”

  “He was unhappy in his marriage, I take it?”

  “Got that right, governor. See, Bridget’s a demanding bitch. Everything’s got to be her way, or there’s a crisis, screaming and crying, sometimes rolling on the ground, mouth all frothy, or worse, the steady peck-peck-peck of her whining. Mind you, she pulled that a few times here on Herb, but he knew how to handle it. He just walked away and left her to talk to herself. But Ormyn, he was desperate that if he didn’t please her, she’d leave him. And he couldn’t stand that possibility. Yet no matter what he did, it was never enough. She was always picking at him about something.”

  “A marriage made in heaven.” Gilbert sighed, thinking about how lucky he was. Edith was demanding too in her own way, but somehow they managed to get along without the dramatics.

  “More like in hell. That was bad enough, but she’s got a wandering eye.”

  “Oh, dear, you don’t mean she —”

  “I’m not sure whether she was just a horny lass. There are quite a few of those about, you know. Or whether she was looking for another situation. But at any rate, Ormyn suspected her. It drove him mad.”

  “You don’t have any idea who her paramours might have been?”

  “Only one. Simon Jameson. Turned out to be true, too. Bridget moved into Simon’s house the day after the funeral. The idiot — he’s been warned about her too, and it did no good.”

  “Good Lord, that is rude.”

  “Rude!” Sally slapped her thigh, laughing. “Got that right. She don’t care about anyone’s opinion except her own, I’ll say that for her. Takes real stones to ignore community feeling.”

  “I had no idea, but then I have been rather busy investigating murders and the theft of valuable relics. Say, you haven’t seen this before, have you?” Gilbert held up the canteen.

  “Nah. You might go ask Herb about it, though, since he snatches them first thing as he sees them. If anybody brought it round, he’d know.”

  Herbert Jameson was in the kitchen disciplining a kitchen boy, who was cowering in a corner while Jameson beat him with a strap. Most of the blows landed on the boy’s forearms, which protected his head. Jameson, a large and powerful man, was striking with such force that Gilbert almost intervened. Jameson glanced from Gilbert to the boy.

  “Get back to work!” Jameson snapped.

  As the boy scuttled to a large bucket filled with soapy water and pots, Jameson turned his attention to Gilbert. He wiped square hands on his apron, then fingered his square jaw as a question formed in his eyes. He was more than a head taller than Gilbert, with a square face to match his square hands, a broad nose, and a dome as bald as Gilbert’s, although Jameson affected to comb part of his hair over the dome.

  “Wistwode,” Jameson said. “What brings you here? Spying on your competition?”

  “Hardly. This is official business.”

  “What official business could bring you to my house?”

  “The death of Ormyn Yarker .”

  “What? I’ve got nothing to do with that.”

  “Nobody said you did. But you may have knowledge useful in finding his murderer.”

  “I find that hard to believe. Can we do this some other time? I’m rather busy.”

  “As am I. And no. We’ll do it here and now.”

  Jameson looked as though he wanted to stomp away. But he stood still with some effort. “All right. Make it quick. I don’t want you stealing any of my recipes.”

  Gilbert held out the canteen. “Can you identify this?”

  Jameson took the canteen and turned it around in his square-fingered hands. He handed it back. “It belongs to one of that rabble what’s come in for the army. Where did you get it?”

  “Never mind that. Who was this person?”

  “Damned if I know. He came for bowls with a bunch of his mates. I made him put it up, just like I make everyone put up their own drink when they bring it with them.”

  “When, precisely, did he come for bowls, this fellow?”

  “The Sunday before last, I should think. It was long ago. I can’t be sure.”

  “You don’t remember his name?”

  “I don’t ask people their names.”

  “Can you remember what he looked like?”

  “Tall, black hair, moustache.” Jameson shrugged.

  “That’s helpful,” Gilbert said, although it wasn’t very helpful at all. Half the people in this part of England were tall with black hair and moustaches.

  “I did notice them playing with that Ormyn fellow,” Jameson added.

  “Them? The soldiers?”

  “Did you think I meant someone else?”

  “When?”

  “It would have had to be Sunday before last, wouldn’t it? Because Ormyn was dead by last Sunday.”

  “Indeed.”

  “Ormyn lost quite a bit of money, too, as I recall. There was some shouting about it in the lane. I almost had to send one of the boys out to separate them. And one of Wattepas’ journeymen was involved, as well. Wace, I think his name is.”

  “Wace,” Gilbert muttered, struggling to get a grip on the implications of this disclosure.

  Jameson leaned close and bellowed in Gilbert’s ear, “Wace! That’s what I said!”

  “I’m not deaf, you know.” Gilbert rubbed his ear.

  “But you’re dumb as a post. I’ll never understand why Edith married you, anyway.”

  “It’s because I’m so handsome and charming. Unlike you.”

  “I won’t be insulted in my own house.”

  “But you feel free to insult your guests? That’s hardly fair. Oh, and there’s one other thing.” Gilbert produced the drawing of Ormyn’s sword, which he had forgotten about until this moment. “You wouldn’t have any idea what happened to this, would you?”

  Jameson batted the picture down. “Get out of my house! I’m done talking with the likes of you!”

  Chapter 13

  “All right, then, listen up,” Parfet said to the thirty-odd men all in their armor assembled in the bailey. “The usual rules apply. No one goes out alone. Keep in pairs or threesomes. All plunder will be put in a common pool, which we will divide up into equal shares when we return. I’ll whip anyone who keeps anything to himself. Understand?”

  There were nods all around.

  “Good,” Parfet said. “For those of you who’ve never done this before, don’t worry. Do your jobs well and there will be plenty for all of us. Now, mount up, and let’s get going. We’ve got ten miles or more to cover, and I want to be in position before dark.”

  The men going on the raid mounted their horses and took up the lead ropes of the pack horses, and began to file out of the gate, Parfet in front, followed by Melmerby and then Stephen. As they passed the remains of the village and headed downhill toward the ford of the Severn, Parfet turned in the stirrups to get a look at the men trailing up the path. “Close it up, there!” he shouted to those who had already allowed gaps to grow between them. “No laggards! Keep together!”

  “Shall I go back and give them some encouragement?” Stephen asked.

  “No, they’ll be fine as long as we keep an eye on them.”

  The men on picket at the ford waved as the leading horses splashed into the river, which was only up to a man’s knees here. On the other side, which was lined with oaks, beech, and willow, there was a broad field that gave the appearance of a sheep run. No one was about, nor any sheep. The path from the ford curved toward the southwest along the river, but the Welsh guide at the head of the party led them westward across the field toward a forested hill a mile or so away. Their route henceforth would be over the hills and away from the paths and the few roads that criss-crossed the region in the valleys, for although the going was slower, they were l
ess likely to startle any of the native Welsh, who could be counted on to give the alarm.

  The raiding party reached the hills above the objective, a village called Llanfair or Llanvair, depending on who pronounced the name, half an hour before dark. Parfet, Mably, and Stephen left the men to set up camp while, followed by Melmerby, they went over the crest of the hill and descended the steep slope to the edge of the wood in order to get a look at the village. This spot gave them an excellent view. All Llanfair lay before them in the river valley, fifty or more houses on the south side of the river with a neat little stone church and a fat manor house not far from where a bridge crossed over, more steep hills on the northern side rising from the river bank.

  “You couldn’t wish for better,” Parfet said. “We’ll hit them at dawn just as they’re waking up.”

  “It shouldn’t take long to strip the place, m’lord,” Melmerby said. “We’ll be done and on our way back by noon.”

  “And home before nightfall,” Mably said.

  “I’d like that,” Parfet said. “Away before they can summon help. This will be fun.”

  Anyone whose knowledge of warfare derived from the ancient sources like Polybius, Livy, and Tacitus might expect a soldier’s life to turn around great battles. But he would be wrong. Stephen’s experience had taught him that the main work of soldiering was raiding and pillaging, punctuated by the occasional siege, and skirmishing, a lot of skirmishing. In Spain, he had found pillaging to be unexciting work which involved making sure that the men took what was needed and they didn’t get drunk or out of hand. Skirmishing was the heady stuff that knights lived for and where reputations were often made, but he hoped this time, as the raiding party filed out of the hills to the road running northward toward the town, that there would be none of that. He still didn’t have confidence in Harry’s modified stirrup, and wanted to avoid testing it against sharps carried by enemies who meant real harm.

  The covered stirrup had provoked some comment, mainly snide remarks from Mably, and sidelong looks from men such as Dogface, whose real name was Perkins, and his friend Gregory (the men had the good sense to keep their contempt among themselves) — and the fact that Stephen had taken to riding with shorter stirrups than customary, a length like that used by the Spanish light horse. He thought he had more stability with this shortened stirrup length, given his infirmity. The longer length required the rider to keep pressure on the stirrup bar using his toes and the ball of the foot, but this was impossible for Stephen, since he had neither toes nor ball on his left foot. He had ridden enough with the jinetes, the Spanish light horse, to be familiar with this style of riding, for Spanish knights did not scruple to ride as light horse when the need arose, unlike the English knight, for whom light horse was a subject of derision.

  The head of the column reached the road and turned right toward Llanfair. A short distance ahead was a one-horse cart carrying a load of hay toward town. A boy on the back spotted the raiders immediately and shouted an alarm to the driver. Parfet broke into a canter as the driver glanced at them over a shoulder and lashed the horse to dash for the village. A cart horse was no match in a race with a mounted man, and the raiders overtook the cart without difficulty. The driver and the boy abandoned the cart and ran into the neighboring field descending a hill on the left. Parfet kept going and, picking up speed, he rounded a bend where another road came in from the west. Several archers at the back of the column paused to overturn the cart and set it afire. Then they hastened to catch up with the main body.

  Shortly after they passed the cart, the head of the column rounded another gentle bend to the left, and there ahead lay the first houses of the village and a third bend brought the tower of the village church into view.

  The raiders charged down the road three abreast with Parfet, Melmerby, and Mably in the lead.

  What they thought was a manor house turned out to be the home of a wool and cattle merchant. It lay by the foot of a hill behind two houses at the head of Bridge Street, where there was a wide expanse that had to be the town marketplace. A good portion of the raiders crowded into the merchant’s yard until Parfet sent them off to start looting the houses along the street and collecting all the livestock they could find, superintended by Mably, while he and Stephen, whose task it seemed was to guard Parfet, climbed the steps to the door, which Melmerby held open for them.

  The owner of the house had just risen, for he was partly dressed and throwing on his coat as Parfet and Stephen strode into his hall. The man’s wife and what had to be a pair of daughters watched from the top of the stairs.

  “What is the meaning of this outrage?” the owner shouted in good English.

  “We’ve come to pay your pleasant town a visit,” Parfet said. “Don’t look so shocked. We are at war, after all. Your people have done all manner of harm in our lands as it is. This is only justice. If you cooperate, no one will be hurt, which I cannot say was a promise you made to our folk.” He motioned to Melmerby. “Take him around the town and have him repeat this to the townsfolk. I don’t want them making any trouble.”

  “Right away, sir,” Melmerby said. He grasped the owner by the collar and dragged him from the house.

  Parfet gestured toward the stairs. “See what they’ve got hidden up there.”

  The soldiers who had followed them into the hall charged up the stairs, while another party invaded the pantry, and others outside attacked the kitchen, barn, pigsty, and chicken coop.

  Before long, the possessions of the house were raining into the yard from the upper windows to be collected and piled in the street where all the loot was being gathered. Parfet and the others were especially excited by the find of silver plate in the pantry as well as a hefty money box chained to the corner post of a bed in the master’s chamber.

  Melmerby returned with the wool merchant whom he released to join his family on the floor above. “M’lord,” he said, “the boys have asked me to tell you there’s something in the undercroft they think you’d like to see.”

  “Shall we?” Parfet said to Stephen.

  They descended the front stairs and entered the undercroft, where a dozen soldiers were standing around four large barrels. The barrels were taller and narrower than English barrels, and were instantly identifiable as French or Gascon.

  Parfet grinned when he saw them. “What do we have here, eh?”

  “Looks to be wine, m’lord,” one of the soldiers said. “French wine.”

  “French wine, indeed,” Parfet said. “Who would have thought we’d find such a thing in this awful place. Pull the bung on that one so we can be sure.” He pointed to one of the barrels.

  A soldier pried out the bung. Parfet put his nose to the hole. He straightened upon. “Wine, indeed! First-rate wine, if my nose is any judge!”

  “You wouldn’t mind if we tried it,” a soldier said, “just to be sure it ain’t gone bad, would you, m’lord?”

  “We’ll take it back with us,” Parfet said. “Find me a cart.”

  A cart with a horse was produced in short order and the casks loaded, then wheeled into the street, where a substantial pile had grown as the houses hereabout surrendered their contents — mainly the most valuable and portable stuff like pots and pans and plates of brass, kettles, drinking vessels, the odd silver cup or plate, bolts of linen and wool, and piles of clothing — while just down the road a herd of horses, cattle, and sheep, along with a few pigs, here corralled by a line of archers.

  “There’s more than we can take back on the pack horses,” Mably said to Parfet. “More than I expected.”

  “It’s early yet,” Parfet said squinting at the sun, which was concealed by gray clouds and was visible only as a dim glow. “We’ll use carts. There’s still time to get safely away. See what you can do.”

  While Parfet and Mably turned their attention to the matter of securing enough carts and getting them loaded, Stephen, whose protection no longer seemed to be needed, wandered back into the wool merchant’s yard. No
w that the house had been stripped of what could be carried off, the yard was deserted, the front door and the doors to the undercroft standing open.

  Stephen heard a woman’s voice from one of the upstairs windows. The words were Welsh and beyond his understanding in themselves but the tone pleading. He could think of only one reason why the woman might be pleading, and he dropped his shield and helmet, and bounded up the stairs two at a time. He crossed the hall at a run and clambered up to the second floor. The voice came from the master bed chamber.

  The door was ajar. Stephen stepped into the room. The wool merchant, his wife, and youngest daughter, a girl of no more than ten, were crouched by one of the windows, a soldier named Michael standing over them with a drawn dagger in case any of them decided to intervene. The wife was the pleader and she was still at it as Stephen surveyed the rest of the scene. The eldest daughter, a girl of about thirteen or so, had been laid upon the bed. Dogface held down one arm while Greg had the other. The girl’s skirts had been thrown up to reveal her legs, which were crossed at the ankles, and her underclothes had been cut off. Her face was resolute as she resisted Melmerby’s efforts to pry them apart.

  “Oh, yer honor,” Melmerby said at the sight of Stephen in the doorway. “Would you like to go first?”

  “There’s no time for this,” Stephen said. “They’re loading up now. We’ll be going soon.”

  Melmerby took this to mean that Stephen had rejected his offer. “We won’t be long.”

  “Let me say it more plainly then. Get going.”

  “Sir Richard won’t mind if we have a bit of fun,” Melmerby said in a sulky tone.

  “I’m not going to repeat myself, Melmerby. Every hand’s needed. That includes yours.”

  Melmerby cursed and got off the bed. Dogface and Greg released the girl’s arms. She rolled off the bed and ran out of the chamber without a glance at Stephen.