Death at St. Vedast

by Mary Lawrence

“Don’t say it! Do you want to conjure them?”

  “And what shall we do if we meet a devil in the road?”

  “Give him your soul.”

  “He’d treasure yours more.”

  “Have you never heard of rufflers and footpads who prey on unsuspecting travelers? They can lurk in the woods and slice us as easy as roast chicken.”

  “I wish you wouldn’t mention food. I’m getting hungry.”

  “Shh!” said John, putting his hand out to stop Bianca. “What’s that?”

  Bianca listened to a call from deep in the woods. “An owl. There are plenty of creatures who prefer the night.”

  “I’m not one of them. I think we should find a spot in the woods and wait until morning.”

  “Don’t think on that farmer’s words. Besides, what if Dinmow is a short walk away? How foolish would we feel spending the night in the woods when we could have slept in a bed?”

  “I tell you, there are those who lie in furtive wait for witless travelers like you.”

  “I shall take my chance. It is too cold to spend the night sleeping on the ground. We must keep moving to stay warm.” Bianca marched ahead, leaving John to stare after her. Standing in the middle of the road, watching his love disappear into the woods, he knew he would not let her get far. He drew his knife and ran to catch up.

  “Ah. So you decided to join me?”

  “Someone has to have some common sense about this, and since you display a surprising lack of it, I’ve decided to accompany you and keep you safe.”

  “I am grateful for that.” Bianca kissed him on the cheek, letting him believe she needed his protection. It wasn’t worth arguing, and besides, she knew he was probably right. They continued on, keeping a brisk pace and their eyes wide.

  “Look there,” said Bianca. She pointed up the road. Moonlight reflected off a stack of stones artfully balanced into a pillar.

  “It looks like a cairn.”

  The road began to widen slightly, and they started up a steep incline. Nearing the top, the road split, and they strained for a better look at the cairn, which was set on a jutting outcrop above them. Something perched on top of the pile of rocks.

  “What is it?” asked Bianca, trying to see.

  John scrambled up the jagged ledge, sending down a shower of rocks.

  “Here’s our angel,” said John, holding up a donkey skull, then pointing it to face him. “Strange wit, farmers.”

  Bianca found a boulder and sat down to rest, waiting for John to climb down. She blew in her hands, warming them against the chill. As the moon rose, it took with it the warmth of day. The cold was a damp, seeping one.

  She listened for John, expecting him to rejoin her, then realized he’d become suddenly quiet. Alarmed, she stood and stepped away from the boulder. She was about to call to him when something hit her head. The donkey skull bounced into the road, and she had gone to pick it up when she heard it, too. Men talking.

  Bianca looked up at John, who was waving her away. She dove into the woods and flattened herself against the ground.

  Two carls, countrymen, but perhaps of more rascally intent, walked into view. They stopped at the fork, crept around the precipice, clinging to its stony face, and took a gander up the road intersecting with the one they had just traveled. Listening and hearing nothing, they stepped back into the road.

  “I hear no hooves or glupping mud of men,” said one.

  “Aye that,” said the other. “I thought I heard voices.”

  “Just the antics of your craven mind, Horatio.” The first man uncorked a flagon and pulled long on it.

  Horatio took the opportunity to water a patch of earth within spitting distance of Bianca. She could see the steam rise and flattened herself as much as she was able, imagining herself part of the ground.

  “Ho, what is this?” Horatio’s companion touched his toe to the skull, then picked it up. “This is not where you belong,” he said to the cranium. He leaned back and looked up at the cairn on the precipice. “It must have fallen.” He sighed. “Alas, poor donkey! I knew him, Horatio. An ass of infinite vigor, of most excellent hocks. He hath borne me on his back a thousand times. And now how abhorred my imagination is. My gorge rises at it.” He turned the skull to face his companion. “Here hung those lips that I have kissed I know not how oft.”

  Horatio cringed. “It is a boast better whispered.”

  “We should set him on his perch. He should not be stamped upon and buried in mud.”

  “It is too dark to climb, you doddypoll. Set it at the base; his purpose will be seen and understood.”

  The man sized up the climb as his friend spoke.

  “See that night has fallen? It is cold and your dead donkey knows no suffering. Cuds me, it knows nothing of my numb feet or the abuse I suffer traveling with you. Put your silly skull there and let us be gone. We have far to travel.”

  Reluctantly, the ass kisser laid the skull at the foot of the crags and gave it a pat.

  The two slogged on, muttering to each other and cursing.

  Bianca got to her knees and listened until their voices faded to nothing and she could no longer see them. John scrambled down the escarpment and they met in the road.

  “I’m glad you didn’t miss,” said Bianca, looking at the donkey skull.

  “You are an easy target.”

  Bianca looked askance at him. “I could not tell how far they had come. They gave no clue.”

  “Except to confirm that our angel is an ass.” John bowed to the skull in mock respect. “The farmer said to take the road veering left.”

  “Then left we shall go,” said Bianca, rewrapping her scarf and trooping off.

  “I hope these woods end soon,” said John, keeping his voice low. “Their shadows and strange stirrings trouble me.”

  “If we should break free of the wood and find an inn, then we should rest for the night.”

  John stopped, took her face in his hands, and kissed her. His hope restored, he resumed a lively gait. Nothing motivated him more than the thought of an ale and some sleep. Above, patches of sky peeked through oak branches reaching over the lane on either side of the road. The limbs creaked, rubbing against one another as the wind blew. A flutter of wings lifted an owl from its perch, and the creature took to the air, receding into the deep snarl of forest.

  They moved on, stubbing their toes on rocks or an occasional paver probably fallen from a cart en route from a brickyard. The road was frozen in spots and mucky in others—the indecision of earth and season. The days would warm, and sometimes they would not. Mostly, though, the sun was swallowed by winter’s argument.

  John spoke very little, and Bianca followed suit. They walked quickly but kept their tread light. Ears listened for movement—for the snaps of twigs, the rustle of fabric, the squeak of a leather saddle, the clopping of hooves. The incident at the cairn had primed Bianca for the possibility of danger. The forest had its own language, its own peril, different from those of the streets of London.

  Another rise in the road, with slippery rocks, slowed their progress. John took hold of Bianca’s hand and steadied her as they navigated the scree, which loosened and gave way, providing no sure footholds.

  “How do wagons manage this?” asked Bianca.

  “Maybe the other road is more forgiving.”

  “But probably longer.”

  Finally the pines thinned and the sky opened out above them. They left behind the random drape of low-lying clouds and confining woods for the expanse of pasture and field. In the distance they saw the faint winking lights from a structure they hoped would be an inn.

  John brightened. “I see no one skulking between hither and yon. Granted, it is not a village, but we can get our bearings and start rested in the morn.”

  “I haven’t any idea how long we’ve been walking. Have you a sense?” Bianca hustled along, trying to keep up with her husband’s long legs. “There is no church clock or chimes in the country. No watch to call th
e hour.”

  “Just the bleating of sheep,” said John.

  “Not even that.”

  A brook cut a deep swathe through the pasture, and they crossed a bridge laid with wooden trestles that wobbled from their steps. The building did seem like an inn of sorts. Lanterns glowed from scattered upper windows, and the low buzz of activity carried across the field.

  “Wait!” Bianca grabbed John’s arm and stopped walking. “We should stash our money in case there are thieves.”

  John patted the dirk he kept on his belt. “There is no need to trouble with that.”

  Bianca shook her head. “Nay. You will sleep like the dead tonight.”

  “You’ve grown worried?”

  “I’ve grown wary. Running into those men on the road has made me realize how far we are from London. I don’t know these roads or these people. I don’t know their brand of trickery.”

  John smiled. “I think we should take enough for a room and board and perhaps a piddly sum extra in case we feel a blade on our throat in the middle of the night. We’ll leave a coin out in clear sight when we go to bed. Mayhap they will just take it and let us sleep.”

  John noticed a small knoll with a clump of trees and boulders a short walk away. The two tromped across the muddy field and found a memorable rock to place on top of their buried purse. Satisfied they would not be left penniless, they angled back to the road and approached the inn.

  Rough-hewn oak timbers ran diagonally and vertically, giving the building a solid, resolute presence in its isolated setting. Perhaps just over a knoll or beyond a stand of woods lurked signs of humanity, its houses and stables of animals. Certainly the pigsty out back hinted at this inn’s industry, if travelers or locals were not enough to keep coin in the owners’ pockets.

  John pushed open the door, entering a room that had been made into a cramped tavern. It ran the length of the house, narrow and jammed with trestle boards and benches. Overhead, the rafters hung low, and John stooped to avoid being knocked senseless. Their entrance drew the stares of a loud crew of patrons, who stopped midsentence, midsip, midbite, to inspect the newcomers.

  “Whose inn is this?” John asked.

  A ruddy-faced woman rose from a table and sauntered over. “’Tis mine and me husband’s. Are you in need of a room?” Her soiled apron reeked of animal fat and manure and spoke of her many duties.

  “Aye, and board.”

  “Board is extra,” she said, resting a fist on her hip. Bianca said nothing as John dickered with the innkeeper over the cost. She gazed around the room, aware that their haggling was being watched with interest. Finally, a price was agreed upon and the woman led them up a set of stairs to a narrow hall with three doors.

  “How far is Dinmow?” asked Bianca.

  “It is a couple hour walk yet.” The woman lit a candle on a table. “Why? Be you headed there?”

  John looked at Bianca. He’d not thought they might be asked.

  “I’m looking for my cousin,” said Bianca.

  The woman straightened. “I know lots of folks in Dinmow. What’s his name?”

  “Emm, her name. Littleton,” she said. “Margaret Littleton.”

  “I knows Margaret.” Her face brightened. “So where’s ye coming from?”

  “London,” murmured Bianca, surprised there was an owner to the made-up name. She hoped the woman wouldn’t be nosy, and she wondered if admitting they were from London might be used against them. But she knew of nowhere else to be from.

  “London, ye say? Hmm. I nevers knew the Littletons to have much to do with the place.”

  Bianca smiled wanly.

  “Well, what are ye seekin’ Margaret for?”

  Bianca dropped her gaze to the floor, feigning diffidence, while John’s eyes grew wide.

  The woman noticed Bianca’s reticence. “Wells, not really me business. Just makin’ talk; that’s all.” She set the flint on the table next to the candle. “When ye get peckish, come down and we’ll give you a tankard and stew.” She edged out the door. “Mutton stew. The husband made it.” She poked her head in one last time. “He likes his mutton.”

  The door clicked shut and Bianca and John let out their breath.

  “We had better get a story straight, for now and Dinmow.” John threw himself across the bed and kicked off his boots. “I’m going to get a permanent crick in my neck from these low beams.”

  Bianca dropped onto the bed beside him. “We can just say we have some news for Margaret.”

  “Nay, that makes people curious. They’ll start asking more questions.”

  “What might we say that wouldn’t make them ask questions?”

  They both stared at the ceiling.

  “Tell them you had some questions about her uncle.”

  Bianca wiped her runny nose. “What if she doesn’t have an uncle?”

  “Who doesn’t have an uncle?”

  “You, for one. Me, for another.”

  “As far as you know.”

  “As far as I know. But if I had my father for a brother, I wouldn’t admit it.”

  John rolled onto his elbow and grinned. “He doesn’t like me, does he?”

  “Who—my father? It matters not. I’m his only child and he doesn’t like me, either.”

  “Well, I like you.” John kissed her, felt some fluttering, then made himself sit on the edge of the bed. “Let’s get some mutton stew.”

  “I have great expectations for this mutton stew,” said Bianca.

  * * *

  The two sat apart from the clientele, listening to a man sitting in a corner play a recorder. They kept to themselves and didn’t say much as they downed their mutton stew—hearty fare with plenty of meat. Soon the patrons lost interest in them, so much so that they were mostly ignored. Bianca kept a watchful eye out for any inquisitive folk.

  Content, with rounded bellies, the two retired to their room. The hearth in the tavern below provided enough heat so they were warm and could dry their wet stockings. They hung them from the beams, and soon Bianca’s kirtle, John’s jerkin, and their smocks dangled from the rafters. After leaving a penny next to the candle by the door, John crawled into bed, tucking his dirk beneath his pillow.

  “We have no way to lock the door,” he said.

  “She’s given us a special room.” Bianca hopped out of bed and opened the door. “Hear that?”

  “I hear the voices carry from the tavern.” John sat up and patted the bed beside him. Though it was dark, John delighted in the faint outline of Bianca’s figure. “Come to bed, wife. I have something to show you.”

  “No sound.” Bianca swung the door back and forth. She ran her fingers along the hinges, then sniffed them. “Wool wax.” She shut the door and crawled back under the covers.

  “Well, if they should take our coin, at least they won’t disturb our rest.”

  As she predicted, John fell fast asleep. Bianca lay awake, wondering if she should wedge something against the door to alert them if someone tried to enter. But there was no chair, nothing except the table. Sleep eluded her, as she could not rest while listening to the house settle. Every creak in the floor startled her. Finally, she rolled out of bed and moved the table in front of the door.

  “I work hard for my coin,” she muttered. “Even if it is just a penny.”

  CHAPTER 21

  The added assurance worked like a charm, and Bianca followed John into a sound night’s rest. The next morning they woke to the murky light of a dreary day. The table had not been moved; the coin had not been taken. After a breakfast of more mutton stew, the two set out in the direction from which they had come and retrieved their purse.

  “That worked well,” said John as they set off for Dinmow. “I don’t think they even bothered to try our door.”

  “Still, we should avoid the place on our return.” Bianca wrapped her scarf several times around her neck, tucking the ends down her front. “Now that they are familiar with us, they might become more daring.”
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br />   They had not gotten far before a horse-drawn cart loaded with hay ambled past, headed for London. Ahead, another wagon approached, laden with sacks of grain.

  “Is Dinmow far?” asked John when it neared.

  “A bit,” came the reply.

  Unsure of the length of “a bit,” they plodded on. A wind came up, dispersing the low clouds and letting in rare streaks of sun.

  They spent time discussing what they had learned and speculated about the men whose secrets they did not know. “Have you heard that rhyme, ‘Goosey, goosey, gander’?” asked Bianca.

  John recited the rhyme with an easy lilt.

  “Goosey, goosey, gander, where shall I wander?

  Up stairs, down stairs, and in my lady’s chamber.

  There I met an old man who would not say his prayers.

  Take him by the left leg, throw him down the stairs.”

  “I know the gander month is a woman’s final month of pregnancy, and I know men tend to roam about then. Up stairs, down stairs . . . wherever they might find a willing, or unwilling, partner. But there I met an old man who would not say his prayers?”

  “Perhaps a person who refuses to take responsibility for their actions,” John suggested.

  Bianca thought on that. “Could be. Or a papist who won’t say his Paternoster in English.”

  “What has this rhyme to do with it all?”

  “That is what I am trying to understand. It may have nothing at all to do with the deaths at St. Vedast; however, the woman who fell from the roof sang it at the top of her lungs.”

  “She was mad, Bianca. You cannot consider the ravings of a lunatic.”

  “Sometimes I think a lunatic is more honest than the rest of us.”

  Eventually the road climbed to a crest. Below, the land flattened out, and in the distance a small village appeared, sprouting up like a thistle in a cow patch. A river ran alongside the community, marked by uncut trees and overgrowth. Fields stretched before them, previously planted in barley and wheat or left fallow for grazing sheep and cows.

  With the village in their sights, the couple forgot the cold and the inconvenience of the open road. Ahead was their destination and their hope to learn more about what had happened in Dinmow. Perhaps, thought Bianca, she would find connections between that and the strange incidents at St. Vedast.