The Tainted Coin hds-5

by Mel Starr

  The events which followed went nearly according to my plan, which, later, when I thought back on the day, surprised me. Generally when I construe some design for catching felons, or seeking the truth of a matter, some unforeseen complication unhinges the scheme.

  The gate before Sir Philip’s manor was constructed of rotting wood and rusting iron. He needed to spend more upon his manor and less upon French wine. But even though the hinges squealed, the guards did not know of my approach and so looked up, startled, as I strode around the corner of the house and approached them.

  “Who’re you?” One of the guards found his tongue and challenged me.

  “I come from Sir Henry Montagu, of South Marston. He has sent me to demand the return of his daughter. Where is Sir Philip? At mass, no doubt. You are left here to see that the lass does not escape? Must be in that hencoop, eh?”

  “Dunno what yer talkin’ ’bout,” one said. “Sir Philip don’t like folk creepin’ about ’is manor.”

  I would not have described my approach as “creeping,” but thought the moment inopportune for a discussion of word definitions. The guard who clarified Sir Philip’s likes and dislikes was reaching for his belt, where an unornamented but serviceable dagger was sheathed.

  “Tell Sybil that her father knows of her capture, and if she is not released to me immediately, he will return with a dozen of his men to tear this manor to pieces!”

  This I said loudly enough that Sybil, were she in the shed, might hear and would not need to be told again. I would have advised the guards to say the same to Sir Philip, but the more irascible of the two had by this time drawn his dagger and begun to approach me. Sir Philip would learn of my words soon enough even if I did not instruct the guards to repeat them to him.

  I took to my heels, feigning fear of the approaching dagger. Actually, I did fear the blade. As I hoped, the guard lumbered after me, waving his dagger over his head and demanding that I halt. I had hoped that both would follow, but so long as one came after I was confident that Arthur could deal with the man left behind.

  The guard was faster than I expected, or I was slower than before my wound. I had thought I would need to keep my pace to a trot so as not to leave the fellow so far behind that he gave up and returned to the manor. I did stay comfortably ahead of the fellow, but ’twas not so easy to do so as I had thought ’twould be. I resolved to seek no more foot-races until I had recovered fully from my wound.

  I leaped a wall and turned to see if my pursuer followed. What resulted could not properly be called a leap, but he did get over the wall, dropping in a heap at its base and cursing loudly. Nettles again, no doubt.

  The sight of my pursuer toppling over the wall caused me to seek other obstacles. I was careful to stay but a dozen or so paces in front of the fellow, whose breath soon came in such noisy gasps that I thought him closer behind than he was.

  We went over two more walls before he balked at the fourth heap of stones, cursed me for a knave, and shook his dagger at me. Arthur had by this time probably completed his tasks at the manor, but I could see no reason not to extend the chase, to be sure of Arthur’s success.

  From across the fourth wall I grimaced at my wheezing pursuer and shouted imprecations at him. I loudly questioned his birth and parentage, and suggested that he possessed little appeal to the fair sex.

  The man was so incensed that his lips drew back from his teeth like an alaunt after a stag. He charged the wall and went over it head first, so wrathful had he become.

  I took to my heels, pleased that the guard had been foolish enough to continue the chase. I had run another fifty paces or so when I turned to see why I did not hear the fellow panting and stumbling behind.

  He lay in a heap at the base of the wall, unmoving. My curiosity got the better of me and I did then what might have been a foolish thing. Perhaps my training as a surgeon was to blame — leading me to aid even an enemy in distress.

  I retraced my steps cautiously, a hand upon my dagger, until I stood over the supine guard. The field had been sown to oats, and I saw his dagger in the stubble four or five paces from where he lay.

  He was not dead. His chest rose and fell rapidly. But he was unconscious and the reason was clear. A stone had fallen from the wall, and when, in his rage, the fellow dived over the wall he landed head first upon this rock. A red stain had appeared, soaking through his cap.

  I put a finger aside his throat and felt his heart beat, strong and rapid. I drew the cap from his head to inspect his wound. ’Twas a deep gouge, and bled much, but he would not go to his grave from it. I felt the skull about the laceration and found it whole. When the fellow awoke he would have a frightful headache, but he would awaken in this world rather than the next. I had not drawn the man to his death, and for this I was relieved. He did but his lord’s bidding.

  There was now little need to circle around the town, but I did so anyway, in case the village priest concluded the mass early and folk might be about the streets.

  Arthur had returned to our meeting place before me, and he was not alone. Sybil Montagu was with him. He saw the look of dismay upon my face, rolled his eyes, and said, “She followed me. Wouldn’t seek the priest. What was I to do?”

  I thought of a suggestion, but bit my tongue.

  “My father sent a man for me,” Sybil said. “I heard him tell Sir Philip’s men what would befall them if I was not released. We must find him.”

  I sighed. “’Twas me who spoke. No man has come from your father.”

  “Then you must take me home. Had you done so before, Sir Philip would not have seized me again.”

  “How did he do so?”

  “Don’t know. A lay brother set a meal before me at the guest-hall refectory. While I ate I heard voices in low conversation in another chamber, and a man spoke my name. After I ate I went to the cell I was assigned. I felt in need of a nap. When I awoke I was in the hencoop again. But now I know who it is has seized me, and this time he does not ask ransom of my father. I heard the guards speak of Sir Philip selling me as servant to Italian wool-buyers, so to keep my father from learning who took me.”

  Arthur and I exchanged glances. She had been dosed with some herb, likely mixed with ale, which put her to sleep. There are many plants which will cause slumber. Pounded lettuce seed is a favorite of mine when a patient is in need of sleep. But lettuce will not send a person into such deep repose that carrying them from Abingdon to East Hanney would not awaken them. Something stronger was used to so stupefy Sybil Montagu that she did not know she was being transported. I could not believe the hosteler was in league with Sir Philip Rede, but perhaps a lay brother was.

  “You will take me now to my father!”

  Sybil did not say this as a question. It was a command.

  “I would like very much to throw you upon your father’s care, but I cannot.”

  The lass spluttered in anger, but I ignored her. “The stables,” I said to Arthur. “Did you inspect the horses there?”

  “Aye. ’Twas as Osbert said. All are well shod.”

  “Speaking of horses,” I said, “we should mount and be off. Mass will be done soon, if ’tis not already, and Sir Philip will find his captive gone again.”

  “’Less you send ’er back.”

  The thought was tempting.

  We returned that day to Bampton, arriving after dark. Arthur took the beasts to the marshalsea and I sent Sybil through the door of Galen House before me. In the light of a candle I saw Kate’s surprise at this visitor, and understood that my explanation for her presence had best be good.

  I had told Kate of Sybil Montagu, and her character, so my spouse was not much surprised when Sybil stamped her foot in anger when I told her she would share a pallet that night with Alice atte Bridge.

  “I demand a bed. My father is a gentleman. I’ll not sleep upon the floor with a scullery maid!”

  Arthur had made the mistake, while we traveled home to Bampton, of speaking of Alice atte Bridge and her d
uties at the castle. Sybil rode the palfrey behind him, and heard.

  “I have no other bed,” I replied, “nor have I another pallet. You may sleep upon the floor, or sit, with your back against the wall. I care not.”

  “Set that fellow upon the floor,” Sybil demanded, pointing to Osbert. “He’s one who kept me confined.”

  “He is injured, and will remain as he is.”

  “My father will hear of this.”

  “Soon, I hope. There is much your father needs to hear. Tomorrow, early, I will take you to the castle. Lord Gilbert Talbot will make a place for you until your father can be summoned.”

  I might have taken Sybil to the castle this night, roused Wilfred the porter, and turned the lass over to John Chamberlain. He would have found an unoccupied chamber for her. But her behavior was so repulsive that I decided I would trouble no man to meet her wishes.

  Sybil fumed, but when she saw ’twas to no avail, she thumped down upon the pallet beside Alice.

  “I am sorry,” I apologized to Alice, “for this imposition. Sybil will trouble you for but one night.”

  That I begged pardon of Alice rather than her for the sleeping accommodations infuriated Sybil even more. Her eyes flashed anger but I cared little for her rage.

  Kate, Alice, and Osbert had already eaten supper, and there was little remaining, so I made a meal of maslin loaf and cheese. I offered some to Sybil, but she snarled a rejection and turned her face to the wall. Alice peered at me with raised eyebrows, left the pallet, and spread her cloak upon the reeds across the room from Sybil. She would rather sleep upon the floor herself than share a straw pallet with such a shrewish companion. Someday, possibly, Sybil Montagu will wed. I wonder how many nights her husband will sleep upon the floor?

  While I chewed upon the maslin loaf I spoke to Osbert, who had already consumed his evening cup of ale laced with ground lettuce seeds. Kate must have provided a strong dose, for ’twas all I could do to keep the man awake and lucid.

  I described the men who had entered Galen House, threatened Kate and Bessie, and made off with the coins and jewelry I had found in John Thrale’s house. The two, Osbert answered, might be mistaken for Sir Philip Rede and Piers, his younger brother, who was not tall, and was given to indulging his appetite. But this could not be so, for no horse with a broken shoe was found on their manor. I asked if other men matching the description could be found in East Hanney.

  “Many gentlemen about who be tall an’ spare, or short an’ stout,” he said.

  “Aye, but the tall fellow commonly wears a red cap, and the short man wears a blue cap. And they may often be seen together.”

  Osbert was silent, thinking. I feared he had fallen to sleep while he considered my words, and this was nearly so, for his speech was slurred when he replied.

  “Sir John’s got squires. Might be two of them you seek. Folk like me don’t see much of gentlefolk from another manor, but I seen ’em a time or two when they was with Piers. The three of ’em is friendly, like.”

  “Sir John Trillowe?”

  “Aye,” Osbert finally replied. I saw that I was losing him to Morpheus and decided further questions could wait for the morning. In the other room Alice slept upon her cloak, and Sybil breathed heavily upon the pallet. I lifted the candle and with it lighted my way up the stairs to Kate, Bessie, and my bed. I had ridden Bruce far that day, and my wounds ached.

  I awoke next morn to the sound of movement below. The east window of our bedchamber allowed enough light from the grey dawn that I could see my way down the stairs, where I found Alice tending the coals upon the hearth, fanning them to flames under fresh wood she had placed there. Osbert was awake, observing the procedure. Sybil lay upon her pallet, watching from under a scowl.

  I turned to Osbert and was pleased to see him rise to an elbow, take a deep breath, then push himself to a sitting position upon his pallet.

  “Dreadful stiff,” he said, “an’ hurts some. But I’m weary of layin’ here on me belly. Won’t spill so much ale if I can sit up.”

  We broke our fast with what remained of yesterday’s maslin loaves. I ate rapidly, so as to be rid of Sybil Montagu the sooner. She was eager to go to the castle, assuming that there she would be amongst folk of her own quality, and be assigned a feather mattress upon which to sleep.

  Wilfred had the portcullis up and the gate already open, so I did not have to rouse him to admit us to the castle. I found John Chamberlain, told him briefly of Sybil Montagu and the reason she now stood pouting beside me, and asked him to relay the tale to Lord Gilbert. Men must be sent to South Marston, I concluded, so as to inform Sybil’s father of where he might collect her. I should probably have taken Sybil to Lord Gilbert myself, but I had little desire to stand in my lord’s presence.

  Somewhere in East Hanney Amice Thatcher and her children were held, and likely in conditions designed to persuade her to tell her captors where John Thrale had found his loot.

  She did not know, so she said, and I believed her. But would those who took her agree? If they finally did so, would they release her, or do murder so as to cover one felony with another? And if they thought she did know the place where the chapman found coins and jewels, what hurt would they inflict upon her and her children to compel her to tell? Whether Amice Thatcher knew of the cache or not, I must find her and set her free. If I could not, harm would come to her, no matter her knowledge or ignorance. And when I found Amice I would also find the men who murdered John Thrale.

  Osbert was prone upon his pallet when I returned to Galen House. “Got dizzy,” he said in explanation. This was good to know. If Lord Gilbert asked of his recovery I could honestly tell of his infirmity.

  When I sat before him upon a stool to learn more of East Hanney he rose again from the pallet, catching his breath once as pain stabbed him.

  “Do you know much of Sir John Trillowe’s manor?” I began.

  “Nay. Never been inside the gate.”

  I feared as much. “You would not know, then, if there was some place — an unused hut, perhaps — where two squires might keep a hostage unknown to Sir John?”

  “Nay. Might be such a place. Most villages ’ave abandoned ’ouses now, since plague.”

  “Are there many such in East Hanney?”

  “Aye. Two on Sir Philip’s lands. Don’t know how many on Sir John’s manor, but I heard tell there was some.”

  “Sir Philip’s lands lie to the north of the village?”

  “Aye.”

  “Whereabouts are Sir John’s lands?”

  “Most of the village is Sir John’s, an’ to the south an’ west. His lands is greater than Sir Philip’s.”

  “Do you know of Sir Simon?”

  “Him of the ear what’s skewed out aside ’is head?”

  “Aye.”

  “Some years past ’e spent ’is time in Oxford, mostly, but a year or so ago ’e come back to East Hanney. Returned to help see to ’is father’s lands, folks do say.”

  I did not tell Osbert why Sir Simon left Oxford, nor why he had a misshapen ear. Perhaps another time I shall do so.

  I wished to prowl the lanes of East Hanney to learn what I could of the village, abandoned houses there, and sheds and huts which might be found adjoining Sir John Trillowe’s manor house. And while I explored the place I would study the mud of the street to see if the mark of a broken horseshoe was there.

  But I was known in East Hanney. I could not set foot in the place without some villager recognizing me as the fellow mounted upon the crazed dexter who helped free the villein who, according to Sir Philip’s design, was providing entertainment for the village nine days past.

  As I considered this my hand went absent-mindedly to my beard, which I had not trimmed for many days, and a solution to the problem came to me. A few days past I had examined myself in Kate’s mirror and saw white whiskers amongst the brown. Each month there seemed to be more. I complained of it once, and Kate replied that the graying of my beard made me appear dist
inguished and mature. Kate can be tactful. What she meant was that I am beginning to appear old. If I powdered my beard and hair with wheaten flour from Kate’s bin, I might appear older than my years.

  From one of Lord Gilbert’s ploughmen I could get an old, tattered cotehardie and surcoat, and a pair of worn shoes. Garbed in such a manner, with hoary beard, I might pass unrecognized through East Hanney. When I told Kate of my plan she gazed at me as if I’d been dropped upon my head as an infant, the result only now becoming plain.

  I took a sheet of parchment from my chest and asked Osbert to sketch upon it a map of East Hanney. With my hand under an elbow he stood and walked unsteadily to a stool I had set before our table. The man could not read or write, but was a competent artist. When he was done I knew the location of Sir John’s manor, the village well, the blacksmith’s forge, the baker, St. James’ Chapel, and where Sir Philip’s manor stood in relation to the village.

  After a dinner of pease pottage and wheaten bread I set out for the castle to seek Arthur. I intended him to accompany me as far as the forest north of East Hanney, there to wait for me to complete a survey of the village. When I told him of my scheme he also studied me as if I’d lost my wits. Perhaps I had, but if I could not do something for Amice Thatcher, and soon, there was a fair chance the woman would lose her life.

  From the castle I went to the house of Alfred, a ploughman. Some years past, when I was new come to Bampton, I had surgically removed a stone from his bladder. Alfred surely wondered why I asked the loan of his oldest cotehardie and surcoat, but when a lord’s bailiff makes a request, most men will answer as needed. And Alfred remembered the relief I had brought him.

  He had but one pair of shoes, but I found a shabby pair in the castle, belonging to Uctred, another of Lord Gilbert’s grooms. Thus equipped, I was ready to set out again for East Hanney early next day, and instructed the castle marshalsea to have Bruce and the palfrey ready when the Angelus Bell sounded from the tower of the Church of St. Beornwald.

  A man wearing such frayed clothing, yet riding a great horse, would attract unwanted attention. So when Arthur and I set out from Bampton next morn I carried Alfred’s and Uctred’s contributions in a sack slung over the pommel of my saddle. In the sack also was a length of stout hempen rope. If we found Amice, and she was guarded, it might be necessary to bind the man.