The Wayward Apprentice

by Jason Vail

  Amicia grasped his forearm. The tingles he’d felt at the brush of her fingers were nothing compared to this. She said, “Tell me! Who is it?”

  He was about to say Fitzsimmons, but the name stuck in his throat. Although he had been certain until this instant, a pang of doubt stayed his tongue. Johanna’s face loomed in his mind.

  Stephen coughed to clear his throat. “I’d rather not say yet. Not till I’m truly sure.”

  Amicia withdrew her hand. Her brown eyes were large as she held his. “We shall have to trust in you, sir. Please do not fail us.”

  Chapter 20

  Stephen slowly folded the note and slipped it in his pouch. Johanna . . . could it really have been Johanna? Johanna had five pounds coming from Baynard’s will, ten if you counted the dowry, which she was sure to control, a fortune for someone in her position. People had been killed for far less money than that. What if she was the one, not Fitzsimmons? It seemed a long shot, but could he afford to ignore the possibility?

  “Stephen?” Amicia said. “Are you all right? You look ill.”

  “I’m fine,” he said awkwardly. “Fine.” He added abruptly, “I must be going. Got things to do.”

  “Of course.”

  He turned away. As he reached the corner of the stable, he heard the splash and swish of the ladle in the cauldron. Amicia began to hum a little tune, Robin in the Thistle. The words for it came to mind. It was a cheery little song celebrating a robin’s cunning victory over a hungry weasel. The robin lures a weasel who wants to eat her babies into a thicket where he impales himself on a thorn. It was a popular song, and everyone always laughed in the end at the cleverness of the robin. Stephen wondered if she liked it for the tune or the words. He wished he could be as cunning as the robin, but he felt as though he was stumbling blind from one thing to another. If Peter had not killed Baynard, whoever had done so had planned it out and acted boldly, so that no one would know who had done it. How could he really suppose he might catch such a clever killer?

  He suddenly felt like getting drunk, for release from his fears and doubts and regrets at the bottom of a tankard, but instead he went into the stable. The mare was at her oat bag and didn’t like having to give it up. She even tried to nip his shoulder when he took it away. He scolded her but it seemed to make no impression, for she then tried to step on his foot. So he gave her back the bag and let her finish the oats while he readied his riding tackle and pondered what to do. When she had finished the oats, he put on the saddle and bridle, fingered the sword in its saddle scabbard for no good reason other than the reassurance it was there, mounted, and rode out of the yard.

  When he emerged from the shadows of Bell Lane to the openness of Broad Street, the full force of the afternoon sun made him blink. The day had started with a chill, which had lingered through most of the morning, but now the day had grown so hot that Stephen removed his coat and folded it on the saddle pommel. At the foot of Broad Street by the gate there was no sign of Harry, which was odd. Stephen squeezed around a cart blocking the gate, getting a good whiff brine from the barrels in carried.

  Outside the town, Lower Broad Street dropped between more timbered houses to the three-arched stone bridge over the river. Stephen felt heavier with every step as he and the mare mounted to the top of the arch of the bridge, the horse’s iron shoes clinking loudly on the paving stones in the windless sultry air. It was a day for sitting in the shade with a cool bowl of ale and a plate of sliced apples, not for watching your back for armed men or chasing suspicions.

  Beyond the river, the road climbed the hill to the Ludford church, which stood quietly at the top of the rise, surrounded by its cloak of elms. The green of the leaves went well with the whitewash of the church.

  From the church, there were two ways to get to Johanna’s place, down the road to Richards Castle, skirting the village proper, or through the crooked lanes between the houses. The crooked lanes were the longer, more indirect route, but Stephen just let the mare her pick her own way. Villages, even small ones, were always busy places, and Ludford was no exception. There were women active in their gardens, doing or hanging laundry, shouting at children. He passed a wagon full of wheat stalks being brought in from the fields where they had been stacked to dry, and already he could faintly hear the thudding of flails at work in the threshing barn as someone got a head start on the threshing. The ring of a smith’s hammer sounded intermittently. He passed a group of children playing hide and seek, and another further on playing football in the street using an inflated pig’s bladder for a ball.

  It wasn’t long before he reached Johanna’s tavern. Stephen stepped the mare across the ditch into the yard and dismounted. He heard no voices from the house. No fires seemed to be going in the rear, where they normally would have been brewing ale. Baynard’s funeral apparently worked a holiday, though come to think of it, he had not seen either Johanna or Pris at the funeral mass. He was beginning to think that no one was home even before he lifted a hand to pound on the door.

  His hand poised in mid-knock as he heard a rustling on the roof. A rustling on the roof by itself wasn’t extraordinary. Rats, mice, owls, and other creatures often nested there. But this was louder and more insistent than normal. Stephen looked up to see an arm emerge from the thatch. It withdrew. Two hands enlarged the hole and presently a head and shoulder thrust into view. It was Pris. She saw him and her eyes widened with fear. She said soundlessly, “Please don’t tell.”

  Stephen heard the voices then. They belonged to Johanna and Clement in low but earnest conversation in the tavern’s main room to the right so muffled that he couldn’t tell what they were saying.

  Meantime, Pris had wormed her way out of the hole. She sat on the steep roof, clinging to a cord binding some of the thatch together. From the ground it was only about six feet from the lip of the roof to the ground, and only about eight or nine feet from where Pris had made her hold. But it probably looked farther to her than to him. She was reluctant to let go.

  Stephen walked the horse directly beneath her. Grasping the edge of the roof, he stood in the saddle. He held out his hand. She looked at him anxiously but did not move.

  “Are you coming or not?” Stephen asked. “The longer you tarry, the more likely they’ll catch you.”

  Pris nodded abruptly and reached inside the hole. She removed a wool satchel and a bundle that looked like a rolled up dress. Clutching them under her arm, she slid down the roof, catching Stephen’s hand. With some difficulty, she managed to plant her feet on the horse’s rump. Together, they sank to the mare’s back.

  Stephen directed the mare eastward toward the river. It was less likely that Johanna and Clement in the tavern room would see them if they went that direction. Pris clasped him about the waist as if she was afraid of falling off.

  “Running away, are you?” Stephen said conversationally.

  He felt her nod. “They want me to get married.”

  “That’s not such a bad thing, is it?”

  Pris snorted. “They want me to marry a grocer.”

  “Oh? Who?”

  “Clement’s nephew, Humbert Thame.”

  “Thame, Thame . . . I’ve heard of that family. They’re well off. It’s probably a good choice.”

  “I don’t like him. He picks his nose and smells.” She shivered. “The thought of him touching me makes my skin crawl.”

  “You want to marry Edgar Carter instead.”

  Pris sat back. “How did you know?”

  “I saw you two a few days ago. On the river. Been meeting secretly, have you?”

  “Mother found out. She was furious. She beat me with a stick. I still have the marks on my legs. See for yourself.” Pris pulled up her skirt. There were old, yellow bruises on her shapely calf and thigh. “She doesn’t approve of Edgar.”

  “Why not?”

  “I don’t know. She just says he isn’t good enough. That I can do better.”

  “Every mother thinks her daughter can do better.�
�

  “What do you know? You don’t have any daughters.”

  “That’s true. But I have a mother and sisters.”

  “I don’t know why mother would be so set against him. She used to let Edgar’s father poke her.”

  “Used to?” Stephen turned in the saddle to look at her face.

  She did not respond immediately, and wore a suddenly guarded look.

  “I said, used to?” Stephen repeated.

  Pris nodded. “They stopped a while ago.”

  “Molly didn’t think so.”

  “Well, it’s true,” Pris flared. “Mum hadn’t been sweet on old Patrick for months. Not since —“

  ”Not since what?”

  Pris’ lips pressed together into an obstinate line.

  Stephen had an inspiration. “Not since Clement, eh?”

  Pris’ widened eyes told him he had hit the target. She looked disgusted and nodded. “He gave her better presents.”

  “Sometimes sweet words aren’t enough,” Stephen murmured.

  “Edgar doesn’t give me presents, but I love him just the same,” Pris said hotly.

  By this time, they had reached the Ludford church, having passed the football game and the amazed stares from the children at the sight of Pris on his horse. It wouldn’t be long before some loose tongue carried word back to Johanna that he’d been the instrument of Pris’ flight, and it wouldn’t take the brain of a sparrow to figure out where she’d gone. “They’ll come for you, you know,” Stephen said. “Clement’s a hard man. He’ll make you go home. Edgar won’t be able to defend you.”

  He felt her shiver. Her arms grasped his waist more tightly. “I’m not afraid of Clement,” she said stoutly. But there as a tremor in her voice that said just the opposite. “Or of my mother.”

  Her sudden tight grip on his waist caused her to lose part of her bundle. The rolled up dress fell to the ground, the skirt fluttering open.

  Pris cried out and slipped from the mare. She knelt hastily to gather up the dress.

  But she was too late to prevent Stephen from seeing something that caused him to draw a sharp breath. Stephen swung his left leg over the horse’s neck and dropped to the ground. Pris clutched the dress to her stomach and the cast of her eye suggested she was about to run. If she did, there was no way he could catch her. But before she could dart off, he got hold of the skirt. He drew the dress from her grasp. There was a dark crusty brown stain on the lower right part of the hem of the white linen. He was well familiar with such stains.

  “That’s a blood stain,” he said.

  Pris was breathing hard.

  “How’d it get there?”

  Pris didn’t answer.

  “Your mother doesn’t want this dress found, does she,” Stephen said.

  Still, Pris didn’t answer.

  “This is Patrick Carter’s blood, isn’t it,” Stephen went on implacably.

  Pris nodded jerkily. Her fingers worked spasmodically. “She didn’t kill him, I swear! She didn’t have anything to do with it!”

  “But you were going to blackmail her with this dress. It was your insurance, so she wouldn’t interfere with you and Edgar, once you were free and away.”

  “They made her be silent! They said they’d kill her!”

  “Who did?”

  Pris looked panicked. She didn’t answer.

  Stephen took her firmly by the arm. “I think you better tell me everything.”

  Stephen guided Pris through the churchyard to the door of the church, which faced west, like the doors of all churches. The vicar occupied a stool before the door. His face and upper body were bathed in a shaft of golden light that pierced the overhanging elms. A pair of boys about seven or eight were seated cross-legged at his feet. They had wooden tablets covered with a thin layer of wax on their laps and styluses in their hands. The vicar rose in surprise.

  “Hello, Uncle Hamo,” Pris said.

  “Priscilla! What’s going on?” He followed them through the door, concern on his face.

  “Continue your lesson, vicar,” Stephen said. “We’ve some short business in the church. It’s nothing.”

  “Men,” Hamo said sternly, “do not make a habit of dragging young girls into my church and then call it nothing.”

  It occurred to Stephen that Hamo might think he intended to lie with Pris. Quiet churches, deserted in the middle of the day, were favorite trysting places. “My intentions are honorable,” Stephen said. “She just has some questions to answer.”

  Hamo watched them, his mouth set in a mixture of indignation and indecision. Stephen regretted not interrogating Pris on the street. Hamo seemed set to interfere. He hadn’t known he was her uncle. Pris tugged as if she wanted to get free. Stephen worried that if he let go, she’d run.

  Then Pris said, “It’s all right, Uncle Hamo. He just wants to talk to me.”

  Hamo grunted, unconvinced. “I’ll be within earshot,” he said. “Let not the least untoward thing happen.” He went out, shooing the two boys in front of him, who had peeked around the doorway.

  Stephen relaxed but did not release his grip. Then he led Pris through the nave to the altar, which lay in a rounded apse at the east end of the narrow building. He put her hand on the altar and pressed it down with his own.

  “Before God and all the saints,” he said as sternly as he could manage, “swear that what you’re about to say is the truth.”

  Pris looked frightened. She hadn’t anticipated having to give such an awesome oath. She hesitated, her eyes wide, but she found the courage to bargain. “If I swear, will you make sure I get to Edgar? You won’t take me home or to jail?”

  Stephen worried that he’d have to get her talking fast before Hamo went to Johanna’s for help. “I’ll take you to Edgar’s.”

  “Swear it yourself, then.”

  “I swear before God and all the saints that if you tell me the truth, I’ll take you to Edgar.”

  Pris relaxed slightly. “Then I so swear as well, before God and all the saints that I will not lie.”

  Out of the corner of his eye, Stephen saw Hamo stick his head around the door frame to see what they were doing. Hamo jerked his head back.

  Stephen removed his hand. He said, “Then tell me about the stain. How did it get there?”

  The rain had persisted for days. It fell in a steady gentle downpour, pattering on the straw roof, whispering against the shutters, dappling the puddles in the yard and road, and filling the ditches. The adults were wet and miserable and grumpy; the children chafed at being kept indoors by their mothers. Not a few, however, somehow managed to escape the confines of their dark cold houses for the outdoors, and when Pris went outside the tavern on this chore or that, she often saw boys and girls racing floats in the ditches or running in the muddy lanes, getting filthy. She wished she could join in the fun, although she was much too old for racing floats or playing tag. She had work to do, and mother was in no mood to let her shirk it, even on a day like this.

  Because of the rain, business was slow. No, it was more than slow. It was dead. Yesterday, they had had only three customers all afternoon and evening, and no one had stopped in to stay the night, as often happened, since the tavern was just off the road to Richards Castle and caught travelers who were too late to get into Ludlow before the gates closed.

  The weather, the lack of business, and some unwelcome news had kept Johanna in a bad mood. She stalked around the inn, muttering under her breath. Once she had cuffed Pris for a bit of back talk, so Pris was sulking too.

  Mother was formidable, but Pris was no longer frightened of her. She was a grown woman now and would do what she wanted. She had made up her mind that she was going to run away with Edgar. They were going to marry. It had been her deepest and greatest secret. She had not shared it with anyone, except her best friend, Gunnora.

  But Gunnora hadn’t been able to keep her mouth shut, and let the secret slip to her own mother.

  Two days ago, Gunnora’s mother ha
d told Johanna.

  When Edgar had come with his father yesterday, Johanna turned them away. They were no longer allowed to see each other.

  As nightfall descended to darken an already dark world, Pris, who was seated at last by the fire, heard the latch rattle in the front door. A man’s steps were audible in the hallway outside. Then a figure filled the dim rectangle of the door.

  “Hello, Pris,” Patrick Carter said. He had that strange lilting accent common to the Irish. He’d been in the country a long time, but for some reason had never lost it. “Your mother at home?”

  “She’s out back feeding the pigs and goats,” Pris said, who was glad to have escaped that dirty chore.

  “Ah, well, I’ll just have a seat and wait for her, then.” He found a place at a bench and table and settled down.

  “Cup of ale for you, master carter?”

  “Don’t mind if I do. Don’t mind at all.”

  “It’s sure to warm you up. Nasty evening.”

  “It surely is.”

  Pris poured out the ale from a clay jug and set the wooden cup before Patrick. “Where’s Edgar?”

  “I thought it better if he didn’t come.”

  “Why not?” Pris had been hurt that Patrick had come alone, but at least now she could see there was some explanation for it.

  “I’ve business with your mother. It’s better we do it together and not while the pair of you are running off to some dark corner.” Patrick grinned.

  Pris couldn’t help but smile, even though she wondered what was up. Patrick had an infectious grin. He made you want to smile when he smiled and laugh when he laughed. Edgar had his father’s talent. It was one reason she loved him so much.

  Presently, Johanna was audible in the hallway. A bucket clunked hollowly against the dirt floor. Feet scraped. After a moment, Johanna appeared in the doorway. She moved to the fire and sat on a stool, hugging her knees.

  “Nasty night for you to be about, Patrick,” she said after a while.