Murder at Broadstowe Manor Read online

  Murder at Broadstowe Manor

  Jason Vail

  MURDER AT BROADSTOWE MANOR

  Copyright 2019, by Jason Vail

  All rights reserved, including the right to reproduce this book or portions thereof in any form.

  A Hawk Publishing book.

  Cover design by Ashley Barber; cover photo by Jason Vail

  Maps by Ashley Barber

  ISBN: 9781791609207

  Hawk Publishing

  Tallahassee, FL 32312

  Also by Jason Vail

  The Outlaws

  Stephen Attebrook Mysteries

  The Wayward Apprentice

  Baynard’s List

  The Dreadful Penance

  The Girl in the Ice

  Saint Milburgha’s Bones

  Bad Money

  The Bear Wagon

  Lone Star Rising Stories

  Lone Star Rising: Voyage of the Wasp

  Lone Star Rising: T.S. Wasp and the Heart of Texas

  Viking Tales

  Saga of the Lost Ship

  Martial Arts

  Medieval and Renaissance Dagger Combat

  Murder at Broadstowe Manor

  August 1263

  to

  September 1263

  Chapter 1

  Death was not far from Stephen Attebrook’s mind as he and Gilbert Wistwode entered the great hall at Hereford Castle.

  Much had changed in England during the last few months, and not for the better. War was coming, many said. In fact, it seemed to have already begun. Stephen had been so preoccupied with his own business that all the political upheaval transpiring during the summer had barely registered in his mind. He had been vaguely aware that King Henry’s French brother-in-law, Simon de Montfort, had summoned an army that in June marched on the Cinque Ports to prevent the further importation of foreign mercenaries by the King which were the base of his military power. Then Prince Edward had made off with most of the tax revenues of the City of London later that month and locked himself up in Windsor Castle, refusing to give back the loot since it was needed to pay his troops, while his father, King Henry, had fled to the Tower, where he thought himself safe from the rebels.

  When Montfort marched toward London in July, while Stephen and Gilbert had been on the Thames chasing a Portuguese slaving ship, the City went over to him, convincing the King to make peace. So, in due course it was announced throughout the country that the King had acceded to the Provisions of Oxford and the limitations they had placed on his power. No one imagined that he was happy about it, but he did not have the support to resist Montfort, who was now the virtual ruler of the kingdom, the King a figurehead. But no peace had been made with the Prince, and it was unlikely he intended to surrender.

  It was a time for choosing sides. Stephen’s old enemy, Percival FitzAllan, earl of Arundel and sheriff of the county, along with many others in the Welsh March, had recently gone over to Montfort. The reason many gave was Prince Edward’s seizure of the London treasury. Yet Stephen, although he owed his position as a royal coroner in Herefordshire to Prince Edward, was uncertain where his loyalties actually lay, and he wondered what he would do when the war broke out in earnest.

  However, because of his appointment, most people saw him as a King’s man, and it was this perceived attachment that caused him to tread with trepidation as he entered the hall.

  For it was filled with adherents to Montfort’s party —burghers, gentry and nobility summoned to approve the selection of delegates to a parliament Montfort had called for in October.

  Stephen had no business being here, as far as he could see. But here he was.

  The hall was overcrowded and noisy, since the business of the day had not yet begun, and people took the opportunity to socialize.

  When people noticed Stephen, their conversation halted as they were surprised to see him here, resuming when he passed, so that it seemed a bubble of near quiet followed him until he came upon someone he knew: a neighbor of the Hafton Manor where he had grown up.

  For a moment the bubble of surprise and silence held, then the neighbor, Thomas Mortimer, one of the lesser of the family of which there were dozens, said, “Well, Attebrook, come for the festivities, have you?”

  “Just keeping an eye on the pulse of the county,” Stephen said.

  Mortimer chuckled. “It’s a good idea to know which way the wind is blowing.” He turned to a servant. “Fetch Sir Stephen a cup of wine, my good fellow.” He went on to Stephen, “We’ve had an outbreak of breathing disease. How is your stock doing?”

  Stephen was grateful that the talk had veered to household and manor problems, here to talk of the health of cattle — and as the lord of Hafton Manor now technically he owned quite a few — as they always did when people got together. It avoided the nettlesome subject of politics.

  Gilbert, who had no interest in such matters, slipped away to fetch a cup of wine for himself, since no one was likely to do it for him.

  When Gilbert returned, he stood by Stephen pretending to listen, since, as a lowly clerk and innkeeper, the highborn here were unlikely to welcome his conversation.

  Stephen began to feel comfortable, and did not sense there might be anything amiss until Gilbert’s eyes widened in alarm and he ducked behind Mortimer and a minor lord from near Ledbury who had overheard the conversation about the cattle problems and joined to share his own, and slipped away into the crowd.

  Stephen swung around to see what had frightened Gilbert. Percival FitzAllan stood before him. The sight triggered unpleasant memories: mainly of FitzAllan having him flung into a pig sty serving as a gaol at Clun Castle, only to have it set fire by invading Welsh with him and Gilbert in it.

  “So, Attebrook,” FitzAllan said with exaggerated heartiness. “I am surprised to find you here!” FitzAllan was a commanding presence: as tall as Stephen but broader with massive shoulders and chest; clad in a sumptuous tunic of blue and red stitched with golden thread; knee-high leather boots of orange with silver buckles; and golden bracelets on wrists that seemed too thin to belong to those hulking shoulders; bejeweled gold rings on each thumb and little finger. His face, now sporting a short beard that ran from the bottom of his ears along the jaw to his chin, was creased with a smile.

  “Why would that be, my lord?” Stephen asked. “I came at your invitation. And I have to say, I was surprised to get it.”

  “Did I?” FitzAllan said. “I don’t recall. Must have been one of my clerks. Got his list mixed up. Happens all the time. Dunderheads, all of them. Can’t trust them a bit. Well, you’re here. Enjoying yourself?”

  “I am, I suppose,” Stephen said. But his words seemed faint to his own ears, for a woman came around FitzAllan’s side whom Stephen had never expected to find here.

  Margaret de Thottenham’s eyes wandered across Stephen’s person as if he wasn’t there. She was a woman so beautiful that she could have stepped out of a painting; barely five feet tall, slender and delicate with a face that could melt any man’s heart if she smiled upon him.

  She took FitzAllan’s arm. Stephen’s heart lurched at the gesture, even though he had no right to feel jealousy. She was her own woman and did what she pleased, to the extent that did not conflict with the needs of her master, the sinister master spy Nigel FitzSimmons.

  “Ah, my dear,” FitzAllan said, “have you met Sir Stephen?”

  “I don’t believe I have,” Margaret said, a lie as pure and black as the inside of a troll’s cave, yet delivered in a musical voice that did not admit to doubt.

  “Well, then,” FitzAllan said, “Lady Margaret, Sir Stephen.”

  FitzAllan looked over his shoulder at someone behind him. He beckoned to that person. “While you’
re here, Attebrook, you may has well get the news from me.”

  “What news, my lord?” Stephen asked.

  “We are making some changes in the county. Reorganizing things, streamlining, reducing expenses.”

  “I see.” Stephen experienced a sense of foreboding.

  “Yes, we will be eliminating the regional coroners in the county. Henceforth there will only be one.” FitzAllan turned to the man who had come to his side. “Let me introduce our new county coroner, Sir Thomas de Mapuleye.”

  Mapuleye extended a hand. He was a small man, his head no higher than Stephen’s chin, and slightly built, with brown hair flecked with gray. A receding chin and a tendency to blink gave him a clerkish air. His grasp was soft and he winced when Stephen gripped the proffered hand.

  “Pleased to meet you, Attebrook,” Mapuleye said, recovering his wounded hand which he massaged with the other one.

  “And I you,” Stephen said. “I suppose this means that I’m out.”

  “It certainly does,” FitzAllan said. “You can go back to that little farm of yours, as long as you can keep it.”

  Chapter 2

  “It means nothing to you, because you never liked the position, but I’m out of a job too,” Gilbert said glumly. “What will I do now?”

  “Chores for Edith?” Stephen asked, referring to Gilbert’s wife, who was the chief operator of the Broken Shield Inn in Ludlow.

  “We need the stipend. It’s been a bad year, with the Welsh marauding about and all the troubles this spring and summer. Fewer people dare to take to the roads and our custom has fallen. We’ve had to borrow money to pay our expenses and the rent. The stipend has been the only thing keeping our heads above water, and barely doing that.”

  “I had no idea.”

  “Well, it is not seemly to talk about one’s money troubles, after all.” Gilbert sighed. “I wish there would be peace, but I can only see more war in our future. We’ll be ruined, everything we’ve worked so hard for, lost.”

  “What happened to your share of the . . . er . . . ahem . . . you know,” Stephen said, not wishing to name the subject out loud. But Gilbert would know. Earlier in the summer they had taken a chest filled with money from a Portuguese ship as it tried to flee England with his niece Ida Attebrook and a number of other kidnapped girls for the slave markets in Lisbon. Stephen’s brother William had died during the attack, in which Gilbert had done his part to take it, so earning a share of the reward. “Don’t tell me that’s all spent.”

  Gilbert’s glum expression became more so. “Yes.”

  “Not on drink and women, surely.”

  “I am not that sort of man!” Gilbert protested. “Bills! We have bills! Mountains of debt!”

  “You bought another book,” Stephen said with a flash of insight.

  Gilbert’s eyes got shifty.

  “Admit it,” Stephen said.

  “All right,” Gilbert said at last. “I did. Don’t tell Edith.”

  “She doesn’t know?” Stephen was shocked.

  “No.”

  “God’s blood, Gilbert, what were you thinking?”

  “It is a beautiful thing! A work of art! It was going to be sold to that Philistine Sturmid de Cottenham. He’d just put it in a trunk.”

  “What are you going to do with it but put it in a trunk?”

  “At least it shall be admired. Cottenham doesn’t care a whit for beauty. He only buys such things to make himself look important.”

  “So you’ll admire it by candlelight in the stable, I imagine.”

  “Well, I was going to tell Edith. I didn’t think she’d mind. Then we had this financial trouble. One of our lenders called in his note, which of course we had to pay. That took the last of my share and more besides.”

  “And if you say anything now, she’ll have your head.”

  “Yes. I am afraid so, as well as other parts.”

  There was no more that could prudently be said about this subject, so they stood in the hall surrounded by chattering people, too consumed by shock at the sudden turn of events to feel sociable.

  Fortunately, FitzAllan relieved them of that burden. He mounted the dais and called for silence. “It is time for you to consider and approve the candidates whose names have been put forth to represent the county at the parliament, the good knights Sir Robert le Keu and Sir Rogier FitzHerbert! Sir Robert! Sir Rogier! Come forward!”

  The crowd stirred as le Keu pushed forward and stepped up beside FitzAllan.

  FitzAllan looked around for FitzHerbert but did not see him. “Sir Rogier! Where are you? Come forward!”

  A murmur arose and a voice called above it, “He’s not here!”

  “What do you mean, he’s not here?” FitzAllan asked. “How could he not be here?”

  “I went by his house this morning,” the voice called. “We planned to walk together to the castle. But his man said he was still in bed and not to be disturbed.”

  “Dammit,” FitzAllan muttered. He turned to a castle steward. “Have someone fetch him!”

  The ceremony of approving the representatives was put off until FitzHerbert arrived, and the chattering of gossip and socializing recommenced, subdued at first due to the embarrassment, but gradually growing in volume as people forgot about it.

  Stephen and Gilbert found cups of ale and settled on a vacant bench along the wall opposite the doors. Stephen’s bad foot, the one that had been partly cut off almost two years before, had begun to ache from the standing. That was his excuse, anyway, for seeking refuge against the wall. The truth was, the news he had been removed as coroner left him oddly despondent — almost as much as the fact that Margaret had taken up with FitzAllan. He had hated the job. Why should he be depressed to have lost it? Gilbert, meanwhile, had begun to look forward to dinner as a buffer to his despondency, although that was still some hours off.

  “This book of yours,” Stephen asked, “it’s not another Gospel is it?”

  Gilbert brightened at the question. “No, it’s a new thing altogether from France. It’s called a book of hours, livre de la heures, although the text is Latin. It is devotional, of course, but has masterful paintings throughout depicting events of the seasons and of scenes from the Gospels and the Psalms. It’s a guide for living a devotional life.” He sighed. “It’s so beautiful. I have never seen anything like it.”

  Gilbert continued to wax enthusiastic about this book without any prompting from Stephen, who in truth was paying attention with only one ear as his eyes followed Lady Margaret as she moved about the hall. A disturbance at the doors to the hall interrupted Gilbert’s soliloquy when the servant sent to collect Sir Rogier FitzHerbert rushed in shouting, “He’s dead!”

  The servant then hurried across the hall to FitzAllan at the dais. He rested his hands on his knees as he panted to recover his breath, as if he had run all the way across town from FitzHerbert’s townhouse.

  “What do you mean, he’s dead?” FitzAllan demanded.

  “He’s hanged himself!” the servant panted.

  “Hanged himself!” FitzAllan cried in return. “Nonsense!”

  “It’s true, lord! I saw his body myself!”

  FitzAllan scowled. His fingers drummed the arm of his chair. He waved to Mapuleye who was on the floor regaling a group with some story. “Mapuleye! You’re the coroner now. Go find out what’s the matter.”

  “Hanged himself,” Gilbert mused from his viewpoint on the bench. “A great lord like that! It’s so unusual. I don’t think I’ve ever heard of that happening before.”

  Remembering a young woman who had hanged herself from a tree last year, Stephen said, “Perhaps not that unusual. I wonder what drove him to it.”

  “Well, it’s not our business now,” Gilbert sighed.

  “No, it isn’t,” Stephen said as he rose to his feet and strode toward the door.

  “Where are you going?” Gilbert asked, hastening to catch up.

  “I don’t know, but I’m curious.”

&nbs
p; FitzHerbert’s house was at a small manor outside the city called Broadstowe. Stephen had only a vague idea where it lay so he kept Mapuleye in sight. Mapuleye had a retinue about him, a dozen men, some of whom were burly with the look of soldiers and one with the tonsured head and black robes of a monk who clasped a writing box under an arm. These rough men were led by a red-haired man with a receding hairline and a hook nose. A large crowd of others who were curious about this unusual death often obscured Stephen’s view of Mapuleye, but all he had to do was follow that crowd.

  Hereford, which sat on a bend in the River Wye, was reckoned a great city, as those things were counted in England. When he was a boy, Stephen remembered hearing a burgess boasting to his father that when finished the walls would extend two-thousand-three-hundred yards. They had been completed for some years now and their U-shape, with the open end at the river, embraced a congestion of buildings that rivaled that of London, of which the burgesses were very proud.

  The crowd flowed down Castle Street to Hungreye Street and through the marketplace at Saint Paul’s, then down to Wydemarsh Street and through the gate into the countryside.

  About two-hundred yards from Wydemarsh Gate, Mapuleye turned right down a lane running between two fields, part of them planted in barley or rye which had been reaped recently, and the other in grass, where sheep and ravens grazed.

  Some distance along the lane, an imposing stone house came into view with a timber upper story at the east end.

  The crowd collected about the double doors of the main entrance while Mapuleye went inside with his retinue. Servants could be seen at the windows, watching the crowd. People in the crowd shouted questions at the servants, but a senior staffer hurried the servants away and other servants pulled the shutters closed to discourage further inquiry.