by Mel Starr
The squire then staggered to his feet, swayed, looked about him, and seemed to shrink back against the palace wall. I thought he was about to swoon again. Not so. He stared into the crowd of onlookers, now dispersing. Fear was in his eyes, and his hands went to his neck. I thought this due to the surgery I had done upon Sir William. Perhaps Thomas worried that his own neck might someday require such surgery. Scrofulous sores are common enough. Then I remembered that I yet held the scalpel in my hand. I turned from the squire and set the blade upon the table beside Sir William. This did nothing to allay the lad’s fearful expression.
Poer paid me no attention when I rested the scalpel upon the table. He continued to watch the departing observers, then to Sir William he said, “What did I say?”
The knight was yet stupefied. “Say? When?” he replied.
“When I lay senseless upon the cobbles. What did I say? I remember speaking as I awoke.”
“I don’t know,” Sir William said. “Paid you no heed.”
These words did nothing to reduce the fear in Poer’s eyes or stop the twitching of his hands about his neck. And his gullet swelled and shrank as he gulped air like a carp tossed upon the bank.
“You said, ‘A terrible end,’” I said.
“Nothing else?”
“Nay. Just ‘A terrible end.’”
The squire visibly relaxed, but his gaze never left the departing observers. I turned and followed his eyes to see what, or who, so entranced, or frightened, him. Several folk made their way from the palace yard in the direction of Thomas’s vision. Among them were Amabil Cheyne and Sir Geoffrey Paget. Their backs were to us as they departed the yard. I dismissed them as the cause of the squire’s fear. But of the other knights, ladies, squires, and grooms in the line of Poer’s sight I could detect none who should cause a robust young man to quake with fear.
Thomas Poer regained his senses enough that he realized he should assist Sir William from the table and to his chamber. The two men lurched off toward the porch. I could not tell which was supporting the other.
All the while Prince Edward had stood watching the exchange between me, Sir William, and Thomas Poer. When they disappeared into the porch he spoke.
“There have been many terrible things happen in Kennington. I wonder which that squire spoke of.”
I gave thought to the matter, but only for a moment. My attention and that of Prince Edward and the others who remained in the palace yard was diverted. A woman was shouting, and then a man, and then both together, each trying to surpass the other in volume. This was not a contest the man could hope to win.
Prince Edward scowled to hear such a din. The shouting came from beyond the marshalsea, so we could hear but not see the verbal combat. The prince turned on his heel and stalked toward the disturbance. I followed, and Arthur followed me.
The screeching female was Amabil Cheyne, and her antagonist was a well-dressed man I had not before seen at Kennington Palace. Two men stood behind this stranger, apparently willing to take his part in whatever strife might ensue. Sir Geoffrey Paget stood behind Amabil, seeking unsuccessfully to calm her wrath.
Much of the argument was incomprehensible, as Amabil and her adversary were shouting over each other. Prince Edward quieted the screeching and bluster. “Silence!” he roared. Where he found the strength for such volume I cannot say. Perhaps my herbs were already having an effect. Or anger gave stimulus to his voice.
“What is the cause of this unseemly display?” the prince bellowed. His voice was powerful enough to make both Amabil and the stranger quail before him. Sir Geoffrey seemed properly awed as well. He need no longer seek to calm Amabil. Prince Edward did so for him. After he wed the lass that obligation would be his alone. Better him than me.
“Who are you?” Prince Edward addressed the stranger.
The man doffed his cap and bowed. He was a thin-faced fellow, with a nose that protruded from his sallow cheeks like an axe blade. “I am Richard Rowell, mercer, m’lord.”
“What business have you here?”
“I seek payment of a debt.”
“Who owes you money?”
“She does,” the mercer said vehemently, “and she will not pay.”
“I owe the churl nothing,” Amabil retorted hotly.
“Why do you say she does when she claims not?” Prince Edward said.
“Sir Giles owed me twelve pounds, four shillings, and eleven pence. I have learned that he is dead. His heir assumes the debt. ’Tis the law, is it not? His daughter inherits his lands and wealth; she must from the legacy pay her father’s debts.”
“My father’s debts, not mine,” Amabil said.
“I’ll have no more shouting and cursing at Kennington. As for your debt,” the prince said to Rowell, “hire a lawyer.”
“Bah,” the mercer said. “She’d rather bribe a judge, as would her father, than pay me what is mine. But I’ll have my due,” Rowell hissed at Amabil. “As for your scoundrel father, ’tis no loss to this world that he is now in the next. A fitting place for you, as well. Best look to your words or you may join him sooner rather than later.”
Prince Edward scowled and said, “Away with you! I’ll have no threats against my guests.”
With that Rowell spun on his heels and stalked toward the gatehouse. His servants followed. The mercer did not look back, but as the three approached Kennington’s gatehouse one of the mercer’s men turned to Amabil and Sir Geoffrey, grinned, and drew his index finger across his throat. I believe Prince Edward did not see this gesture. But Amabil did, and reached a hand to her neck.
All I knew of Richard Rowell, mercer, I had learned in the past few minutes. He was a man who was ill-used, and he gave evidence of a fierce temper. Would he slay Sir Giles and then seek payment from his heir, assuming a lass to be a weaker adversary? If so, he had clearly underestimated Amabil. When St. Paul identified women as the weaker vessel he had not met Amabil Cheyne.
Arthur had stood behind me observing this confrontation, and now spoke.
“Seen that mercer before,” he said.
“Where?”
“At the hangin’. The apprentice what stole his master’s silk. That fellow was there. Stood by the cart, arms folded across his chest, lookin’ satisfied. I’d not forget a face like his.”
Prince Edward did not know Richard Rowell, which meant that this was likely the mercer’s first visit to Kennington Palace. So I thought. Then how could Rowell have to do with the murders of Sir John and Lady Ardith? Or of Roger de Clare? Were these deaths all unrelated to that of Sir Giles Cheyne? I could not believe it so. But Rowell’s tempestuous behavior a few moments earlier indicated a man willing to dispense his own justice if he saw no one else able or willing to provide it. Did Richard Rowell do business with Alan Tonge? A skinner would need silk to line the fur coats he made for gentlemen, and also for fur coverlets made for a lady’s bed. In the course of business with Alan, had Rowell met Arnaud?
I sought Sir Harold and asked him to assign one of his constables to accompany Arthur and me to the Shambles. The fellow he chose was not pleased with the duty, I think, for a chill mist had settled upon London and made the streets even more disagreeable than normal. But the miserable weather meant that the streets were nearly empty, so no throngs impeded our journey to Greyfriars’ Church – although the mud was not helpful.
The afternoon had become dark, with low clouds, so that some folk had candles or cressets lit. Windows of oiled skins glowed dimly. The windows of Alan Tonge’s house were dark, but as we made our way behind his house two windows showed that the skinner was at work in his shop, his labor lighted by a cresset or two.
I thumped upon the workshop door. His apprentice opened to me, took a hurried glance at Prince Edward’s badge, and stepped back, open-mouthed. Perhaps he remembered my face. He surely remembered the badge.
“Who’s there?” Alan called.
“’Tis Master Hugh,” I replied. “Upon Prince Edward’s business.”
In the dim light of the workshop I saw the skinner bent close over skins he was carefully stitching together, as assiduous in his labor as I had been over Sir William Vache earlier. When I spoke, Tonge stood, blinked, rubbed his back, and asked, “You have news of who slew my brother?”
“Nay, no news. A question.”
On a shelf beyond the table where lay the furs being assembled I saw fabric folded carefully. This material had a dull sheen in the light from cressets and window. Not linen but silk was stored on the shelf. No wonder the workshop entry door was so heavily barred. I pointed to the stuff.
“You use that for lining the coats you make for gentlemen?”
“Aye.”
“And with winter near you are at work on a coat?”
“Aye. For Sir Robert Bray.”
I walked to the table where the garment was being constructed and felt the fur. Even in the dim light I could see glimmers of a reddish hue in the grey.
“Fox, is it not?”
“Aye.”
“A man would be pleased to don such a coat, I think. The silk you will use to line the coat, from whom will you purchase it?”
The question brought a puzzled look to Tonge’s face. “Whoever provides the goods I need at lowest price,” he replied.
“Surely. Wise business. Is the price not set by decree?”
The skinner was silent for a moment. “It is,” he finally said.
“But not all mercers and drapers hold to the ordinance, I suppose. Who among those who sell silks will offer bargains when you seek their goods?”
The puzzled look remained upon the skinner’s face, and even deepened. What, he surely wondered, was I about, asking who offered silk at a reduced price?
“Henry Estes is my usual supplier.” Tonge glanced to the shelf. “The silk you see there I purchased from him. I’d not wish to see him troubled for offering an occasional bargain.”
“I have no interest in the price of silk,” I said. “Any others that you buy from?”
“I have done business with Thomas Gryce… Do you seek silk?”
“Nay. It’s not that. Have you purchased goods from Richard Rowell?”
“When I must.”
“When you must? Explain.”
“If Henry or Thomas does not have what I need, nor any other mercer, I have sought silk and linen from Richard.”
“Why only when you could not find goods from others?”
“Rowell charges the set price. And will deceive a man who is not vigilant.”
“How so?”
“Have you met the man?” Tonge asked. “He is short in stature. When he measures out a yard of silk the distance from his thumb to his nose is briefer than most men’s, but he sells the length as a yard and cheats the buyer.”
“And will offer no discount on the ordinance price? Yet men do business with him?”
“When they must. His goods are of quality, that must be said, and he has many colors from which a man might choose.”
“So folk who seek quality and care little for cost seek his goods?”
“Aye. Gentlemen and knights and folk of rank.”
“Did your brother know Rowell?”
“Aye. We both learned the skinner’s trade from our father. I am oldest, so will inherit. Arnaud understood this and so when he came of age he left to seek his own way in the world. Did well, did Arnaud. Became valet to Prince Edward.”
“So Arnaud knew the mercer Rowell. Were they friends?”
“I’d not say so. And ’twas five years past when Arnaud went his own way.”
“He might have remained known to Rowell,” I suggested.
“Aye, might’ve. Likely.”
“How did Arnaud come to find employment with the prince?” I asked. “Did he leave this business because he was offered a position at Kennington Palace?”
“Aye. We’d made a fur coat for Sir Gilbert Flynt. Whilst Arnaud was fitting the garment he heard Sir Gilbert telling his squire of Prince Edward’s intention to employ more grooms at Kennington. Arnaud made so bold as to ask Sir Gilbert if he’d speak to Prince Edward’s marshal for him. Not a fortnight later he went to the palace.”
“And did good service, so was made valet?”
“Aye. I suppose he must have served well.”
“When did you last do business with Richard Rowell?” I asked.
Tonge pulled at his beard for a moment. “Two years past. I needed crimson silk to line a coverlet for Lady Margaret Beston. There was none to be had in the hue she demanded from any other mercer in London. Rowell demanded nine shillings a yard. Robbery!”
“You’ve not seen the man since?”
“Nay.”
“What of Arnaud? When you saw him did he ever speak of meeting with Rowell?”
“I didn’t see much of Arnaud. Duty at Kennington kept ’im there, I suppose. That’s why I was surprised when he came to me a week past, seeking to escape London. Is that why you’re asking of Richard Rowell? You think he knows something of what Arnaud was about, and who the felon is what did away with ’im?”
“It may be so. But many things which may be so are not. Possible does not mean likely.”
I bade the skinner “good day” and with Arthur and the groom set out for London Bridge and the palace. The foul weather quickened our pace, but even so the gloom of the day had become the dark of evening before we reached Kennington Palace gatehouse.
Chapter 16
Dr. Blackwater was not interested in conversation during supper. This was good. Neither was I. I chewed and thought of what I had learned from Alan Tonge. And I also thought of what I had not learned from the skinner.
I had detected no reluctance in Tonge to tell of his dealings with Richard Rowell, or Arnaud’s association with the mercer, once his mind had been set at rest that I had no interest in seeing he had followed the law to the letter in plying his trade. If Alan Tonge thought there was some business between Arnaud and Rowell which needed to be disguised he indicated no intent to do this. But could the mercer really have become so furious at Sir Giles that he would consider murder to avenge his unpaid debt? And did he know of Arnaud’s service at Kennington Palace? Likely he did. Word of such an advancement would be a matter of pride, not concealed.
One man who had reason to harm Sir Giles Cheyne was now dead. Another now sought redress from Sir Giles’s daughter. The man who slew Sir Giles was now himself slain, in curious circumstances, and in a village where folk seemed determined that I would learn no more of the death than I had thus far been able to discover.
Prince Edward, I noticed, attacked his supper this day with enthusiasm. Perhaps this was due to the continuing absence of boiled roosters from the removes. Most of the prince’s guests at supper appeared light-hearted. The deaths in Kennington Palace seemed forgotten. Or perhaps those who brooded over the murders had departed the palace, leaving only the unconcerned and those who knew of no enemies. I knew of three knights who had fled to their own shires.
I saw only one morose man. Sir Geoffrey Paget nibbled at his portions, staring at the wall across from his table, barely speaking to Amabil Cheyne, who had suffered no loss of appetite from her exchange with Richard Rowell. The lass consumed her fare with much cheer and ignored her dour companion.
My eyes occasionally rested upon Thomas Poer, who seemed recovered from his swoon. The squire conversed freely with his companion. At first. As the third remove was served, a jelly de chare and fraunt hemelle, Poer caught my eye resting momentarily upon him, and his visage fell. Why? What had I done to cause him melancholy? I had relieved his master of a grievous sore. For that, I thought, he should be joyful this night. As I consumed the third remove I noticed that the youth never again looked to me, nor did his countenance resume the sanguine appearance with which he had begun the meal.
My thoughts wandered to the squire’s words as he awoke from his swoon. “A terrible end.” What did he find so terrible about surgery to remove a scrofulous sore and what end did that
involve? Or was it some other terrible thing of which he spoke? Certainly there had been terrible things happening in Kennington Palace. More terrible than the blood of a surgery. Did Thomas Poer speak of these? One of them? “A terrible end,” he had said. One end was terrible. One only. What other dreadful things that had taken place at Kennington Palace in the past fortnight did not strike the squire as terrible?
I lay abed considering Richard Rowell. If ’twas he who paid Arnaud Tonge to put hemlock into Sir Giles’s wine then it was likely he who slew Arnaud, or paid some other man to do so. Why would such an arrangement lead to the hostility I found in Hornsey when I was seen to be curious about Arnaud’s death? Why would anyone of the village care?
Did Sir Thomas Jocelyn know Richard Rowell? Had he purchased silk and linen from the mercer? More to the point, did he owe Rowell for some of his fabrics, and what might he do to see his debt to the mercer forgiven? With the sonorous accompaniment of Arthur’s snoring I fell to sleep thinking that another visit to Hornsey was required. But this time I would first seek Sir Harold and travel with a small army of his constables.
I awoke to the same suspicion as had occupied my mind before Morpheus claimed me. But what of Roger de Clare? What could he have to do with an unpaid debt to a mercer? Was he in the party of young men who were hired to halt my inquiry? If Rowell paid four men to accost me upon the road, and paid Sir Thomas – or forgave a debt – to have his henchman slain, he would have small profit from the debt owed him by Sir Giles, even if he could recover the obligation from Amabil.
Arthur and I broke our fast with loaves hot from the palace bakehouse and cups of fresh ale. I did not need to seek the marshal, for Sir Harold also sought a loaf and ale. I told him that I required six men with horses enough for them and Arthur and me. The marshal knew of the assault Arthur and I had escaped, so guessed our destination.
