by Jason Vail
“This was arson?” Stephen said.
“Of course it was arson. Men were seen inside with torches last night before she went up!” Baynard snarled. He pointed his finger at Bromptone. “You! Your men!”
Bromptone looked grim. “You better be able to back that accusation up with action, Baynard.”
“Action!” Baynard shouted, for he has lost all control of himself. “You’ll have action!” He waved to his workmen. “These are the men who fired the mill! They took your jobs!”
The workers didn’t need any further encouragement. They found staves and leaped the fence, scattering the boys, who, sensing a fight, dropped back so as not to be drawn into it but not so far that they didn’t have a good view.
Bromptone and his friends drew swords.
In a moment, they’d be hacking at each other, blood would be flowing, and without a doubt, men would die here on this quiet lane. But Stephen was a king’s officer, and could not allow that to happen.
Stephen drew his sword and spurred between the two factions. He shouted, “The king’s peace! I declare the king’s peace! As a crown officer, I order you to put those weapons down! There will be no brawling in the streets unless you want to answer to the sheriff!”
For a moment, Stephen thought the fight would erupt about him, but gradually, the weapons dipped toward the ground.
“That’s better,” Stephen snapped. “Now, disperse all of you, or I’ll have the sheriff after you.” The men glanced from him, to their adversaries, and to their leaders. Stephen snapped again, “Move! Rioting is a whipping offense, and I’ll see it done, so help me God, if you don’t disperse.”
Baynard’s eyes were on Bromptone when he spoke. “Saved by a cripple,” he spat, and turned away. One by one, his men followed him through the fence, until only Stephen, Bromptone and his companions remained on the road.
Bromptone stood his sword on its point and folded his hands on the pommel. “It seems I am in your debt.”
Stephen studied FitzSimmons, searching for some sign, anything that indicated he was behind the attempt to kill him. But FitzSimmons’ eyes stayed on Baynard’s back and he gave nothing away.
“There is no debt,” Stephen said. “This was duty. Now, all of you, be off, before there’s more trouble.”
Chapter 8
As Stephen directed the mare up the hill away from the mill, it occurred to him that he would pass close to Johanna’s brew house. He had never been there, but had no trouble spotting it — long and low with a peaked thatched roof like all its neighbors but distinguished by the trestle tables in the yard where people liked to drink in good weather. The front door was open, revealing a narrow central corridor, which suggested that it had started its existence as a peasant cottage, the kind where the people lived on one side and the animals on the other, and he could see clear through the house and out the back to the yard and field beyond.
Stephen tethered the mare by the gate and crossed through the house to the back yard.
He saw a girl stirring a caldron which simmered over a fire, and three women raking barley malt in large pans in a shed. One of these women nudged another who straightened up, wiped her hands on her apron and came over.
“Is there something I can help you with?” the woman asked. She wasn’t much older than Stephen and still pretty.
“I’m looking for Johanna,” Stephen said.
“I’m Johanna,” she said. She crossed her arms and regarded him warily. “What do you want? You obviously haven’t come for the drink.”
“No, but I’ll try some just the same.”
Johanna spoke to the girl at the caldron. “Pris, fetch his lordship a tankard.” She turned back to Stephen. “What business does the coroner’s new deputy have here?”
“You know.”
“I’ve already told my story to Tom Pritcher and Alexander.” They were two of the men on the coroner’s jury. “I’ve nothing more to say.”
“Patrick came, he drank, and he walked off,” Stephen said.
“That’s the size of it.”
“You had no fight with him?”
“You accusing me now?”
“No, I’m asking.”
“It was a busy night. We had no time to quarrel.”
“And you heard nothing.”
“Not even the whisper of the wind.”
“What about the girls?”
“Only Pris was here that night. She’s got nothing to add.”
“Yet between this house and the ditch, someone stuck a knife in him. There’s usually a reason for that, and it’s most often a quarrel. I’ve never known a quarrel that didn’t make noise.”
She said, “He probably met someone on the road. There’s a robber or two hereabout living in the woods. Could’ve been one of them.”
“But that wasn’t the way home.”
“He probably got turned around in the dark. He’d had quite a few.”
Pris came up with a wooden tankard. “Just tapped today,” she said. She was a pretty thing, probably no more than fifteen with a small bud of a mouth that the boys must yearn to kiss. She looked troubled, lingering there as if she wanted to say something, but Johanna’s glare drove her back to the caldron.
There was something about Pris, dark haired and brown eyed, that looked familiar, but Stephen could not put a finger on it what it was. He took a sip. The ale was fresh and sweet. “It’s good,” he said.
Johanna forced a thin smile. “Ain’t poisoned a customer yet, governor.”
He swirled the ale. Her coldness struck him as odd. He had no reason to doubt that she had once been Patrick’s lover. Yet she did not seem moved. He said, “Aren’t you sorry about Patrick? You were more than friends.”
Johanna’s eyes softened for a moment. She shrugged. “He was all right. Kinder than most.” Then her eyes snapped back. “Look, governor, you finished? I got things to do. Don’t have time to stand here.”
“Don’t let me interfere,” Stephen said. It was obvious she wanted him to leave, but he just stood there, sipping the ale. When he didn’t go, she turned back to raking barley mash.
Stephen strolled about the backyard. He wasn’t sure why he did so, but he felt compelled to look the place over. Besides the equipment for brewing, the yard held a chicken coop and another enclosed shed. A peek in the shed’s doorway brought him the separate stenches of pig and goat and the sight of separate pens for the animals.
He gazed across the field behind the shed, trying to spot the place where Patrick’s body had been found. He imagined Patrick coming out of the brew house, crossing the yard, coming out near here and . . . what?
Whatever sign in the dirt of the yard of what transpired that night was long erased.
As he turned away from the field, he saw something that made him pause. Beyond the grass of the yard and a pair of the big spreading oaks that marked the boundary with the wheat field, he saw marks in the ground among the stubble. He left the yard and entered the field and knelt so as to put the marks between him and the rising sun.
They were man tracks, all right. It had been six days since Patrick had died. Most tracks that old would have been obliterated by now, but these had been set down in mud that had hardened after the rains, and were only now beginning to disappear. He knelt for a closer look, head near the ground. They were the footprints of men, two of them by the look of it, barely visible now, and partly covered by the marks of pigs. They had walked out into the margin of the field, together or apart, it was hard to tell, and then stopped to face each other. Then one set led off across the field. Stephen could not tell where the other man had gone.
He followed the footprints out into the field. Here and there, they disappeared. At the first disappearance he drew his sword and, going back to the last clear set, used the blade’s length to measure the distance between right heel marks. It was a trick he had learned in Spain. Plotting distance on the ground with that measure, which told him where to expect to find another heel mar
k, he spotted one, an almost invisible half-moon impression nearly obliterated by a pig’s print. Beyond it, he picked up the trail again. The marks zigged and zagged in a generally southwesterely direction toward the road to Richards Castle. A few more times, he lost the trail, but picked it up again.
Before he knew it, he had reached the road.
It was the same spot where Patrick had died.
There was no doubt in his mind that he had just followed Patrick’s path to his death.
Stephen retraced his course across the field and entered the brew house yard. Johanna avoided his eye. He returned the tankard with a farthing to Pris.
He passed through the house again, and untied the mare. He allowed her a short drink in the trough, and then mounted her and started up the street toward the road.
It was clear Patrick hadn’t been attacked in the field or at the road. Whoever had killed him had acted in the yard of the brew house. Johanna had to know more than she admitted. But he had no idea how to get her to talk. He’d think of something, somehow.
Chapter 9
The Canterbrigges’ house lay on Berkeley Street, the main road that ran west to east straight through town, only a few doors down from Westgate. As with most merchant’s houses, the shop lay on the ground floor facing the street. Through the open windows, Stephen could see that one side was occupied by looms, where half a dozen men and women clattered away with shuttles and cocks, weaving cloth. The clamor made him want to put a finger in his ears. The other side held racks displaying bolts of wool and linen in wildly different colors: blues, reds, deep rich maroons, forest greens, lush browns.
Stephen went in. A stooped old man wearing a fine green wool coat was behind the counter and asked his business.
“You’re Walter Canterbrigge?” Stephen asked uncertainly. It had taken only one inquiry to learn of the man’s name, for there could only be one Canterbrigge in Gloucester who was a draper.
“Oh, no, sir,” the old man wheezed. “I’m Adam Oversee. The master is busy this morning. You can do all business with me that you can with him.”
Stephen said, “I’ve ridden two days from Ludlow with a letter for his daughter,” Stephen said. “Do you know where I can find her?”
“Two days from Ludlow! You must have flown on Pegasus.” Adam’s gnarled fingers groped the air. “You can give me the letter. I will deliver it.”
“No,” Stephen said. “I’ve been instructed to give it directly to her hands.”
“Oh, such an important letter that must be,” Adam said, each word a labored gasp. “I shall have to fetch the master. Yes, the master. He’ll want to know about this.” He tottered round the counter and headed toward the back hall, his mutterings gradually dwindling as he went deeper into the house: “Oh, yes, he’ll want to know. A letter from Ludlow! From Ludlow! For Mistress Amicia . . . oh, my . . .”
Presently a heavy set man appeared in the rear doorway followed at some distance by Oversee. This had to be Canterbrigge, with his distinguished gray hair and short beard, embroidered Lincoln green coat, its buttons silver rather than the more modest brass, and quite expensive black hose.
Canterbrigge introduced himself politely enough and held out his hand. “You’ve a letter for my daughter?”
Stephen said, “Master Wattepas in Ludlow asked me to deliver it personally.”
Canterbrigge said coolly, “I’ll see the letter.”
“Master Wattepas was quite explicit. I was to deliver it to her alone.” Stephen had been afraid of this, but there was no polite way he could refuse at least showing the letter to the girl’s father. He drew it out, seal up, heart thumping with worry, for if Canterbrigge broke the seal and unfolded the leaf, he would find it blank. “He would be quite distressed if I violated his instructions.”
“There is nothing Wattepas has to say to her that he could not say to me as well,” Canterbrigge said. He took the letter and examined the seal closely. The perplexed and worried look in his eye told Stephen he recognized it. Stephen held his breath while Canterbrigge’s finger strayed near the flap.
But Canterbrigge’s hand dropped to his side. To Stephen’s relief, he returned the letter with a sigh. Canterbrigge said, “Well, she’s a married woman now. I suppose she’s entitled to open her own letters.” He smiled and relaxed. “It’s hard for a father to let go, you know. But you wouldn’t. You’re too young.”
“No, I wouldn’t.” Stephen breathed a little easier. “Can you tell me where she can be found?”
“If you came in from Ludlow on the west road, you passed the place. Her husband’s shop is about a hundred yards this side of the Severn bridge. It’s not large; he’s just getting started in business. The sign is a spindle and ball of wool. Red wool.”
Stephen surreptitiously took a deep breath. “Thank you.”
Stephen sipped a mug of cider at a tavern across from Peter Bromptone’s shop. A gnawed sweet bun lay on a napkin before him. Now that he had found young Bromptone, the prospect of dragging him back to three years of servitude weighed heavily on his conscience.
He did not have much time to dwell on his misgivings. Two beefy men wearing the sheriff’s badge entered the inn and looked around. Stephen stood and beckoned to them. “Over here,” he said.
“You have the writ, sir?” asked the taller of the two under-bailiffs, who introduced himself as Ralph.
Stephen waved a roll of parchment. “Yes.”
“May I see it, please, sir?” the bailiff asked. Stephen was surprised he could read, but handed it over. The bailiff didn’t tarry over the writing, however, pausing only to examine the seal. “Right, then. What about the money?”
Stephen put two pennies for each man on the table. Theoretically, bailiffs were not supposed to charge a fee for serving a writ for a crown officer, but they expected something nonetheless.
“Is there a chance we could get a spot of ale, your honor? It’s such a hot day,” the shorter bailiff asked, licking his lips and glancing toward the barrels at the other side of the room.
The request annoyed Stephen, but he waved over one of the serving girls, who fetched cups for the two men.
“Drink fast, boys,” Stephen said. “I’ve got a long way to go.”
Ralph drained his cup with great gulps. “Sure you don’t want us to come with you?”
“I think I can manage.” Having the two bailiffs as an escort back to Ludlow would cost him dearly and he didn’t trust Baynard to cover his all expenses, especially if they were unexpectedly large.
“All right then,” Ralph said. “You ready, Utti?”
Utti wiped off his dripping beard and grinned. “You sure you don’t want him roughed up a bit?”
“I don’t think that will be necessary,” Stephen said.
“It helps when you soften ‘em up. They give you less trouble.”
“I don’t think he’s likely to cause any trouble.”
“Never know about these boys,” Utti said.
“He’s a draper, not a mason.”
“Yea, well, those young ones can be feisty, even the drapers. We’ve had our share of trouble with them.”
“And he’s married.”
Utti looked disappointed. “They’re as bad as the apprentices sometimes.”
“I’m told this one’s not a fighter, he’s a talker.” Stephen paid the bill and they crossed the street to Peter Bromptone’s shop. Stephen paused at the door. The two bailiffs nearly bumped into him. He took a deep breath, and went in.
There was a single young man inside before a rack of woolen and linen cloth. He was a full six inches shorter than Stephen’s rough hewn six feet and slender built. He had to be no more than twenty, brown haired with a spray of light freckles across his nose, but his boyish face made him look years younger. It was a handsome, friendly, open face, alight with eagerness at their appearance as if in anticipation of new business. Stephen was almost sorry to watch that eagerness melt away at the sight of the three hard men in the doorway.
“I am,” Peter said hesitantly. “How may I serve you?”
“My name is Stephen Attebrook. I am deputy coroner at Ludlow. I hereby attach you for abjuring your apprenticeship, for breach of contract, and for nonpayment of debt. You are under arrest and will answer at Ludlow. No sureties will be accepted.” He motioned for the bailiffs to serve the writ.
Peter took the parchment with a hand that, surprisingly, was quite firm. He examined the writing. His eyes blazed. “That prick.”
Utti, who had edged around to cut off a retreat through the rear door in case Bromptone thought to run, stepped forward menacingly. “Keep your tongue under control. You’ll not talk to his honor that way!”
“This is my house, and I’ll say what I like,” Bromptone snapped.
Stephen couldn’t help but smile. There was more iron in his spine than showed on his face.
Utti raised a fist, but Stephen stopped him. “Master Bromptone, you will have to come with me. If you have any things you wish to take with you that can be carried on the back of a horse, you’d best fetch them now.”
Peter returned the writ to Stephen. “Very well,” he said.
“Peter!” a woman’s voice sounded from the rear doorway. “What’s going on?”
They all turned to the new speaker. There was a moment of silence, a moment that to Stephen was tinged with awe. She was the most beautiful woman he had ever seen: lush brown hair piled above her head and covered with a matronly veil, a pale face under dark eyebrows with lively dark eyes that were narrowed with concern, hardly any nose at all, a delicate mouth and a pointed chin above a swan’s neck. Beside her, Peter Bromptone was a pale shadow, and Stephen felt as plain as a lump of coal. No wonder Bromptone had thrown over his apprenticeship to marry her: she was beautiful enough to inspire murder.
Peter said bitterly, “This gentleman was come to arrest me, my dear. I’m to return to that man.”
