Bad Money (A Stephen Attebrook mystery Book 6) Read online

  He re-entered the house and passed through to the hall. He paused at the threshold, a thought just having occurred him. “Do you have a candle in the pantry?”

  “There is one. We save it for emergencies.”

  “Fetch it, please, and a striker.”

  Dungon turned back to the pantry, muttering to herself about the insult and the waste, but returned right away. “Here you go.” At Stephen’s level and unfriendly look, she added. “Sir.”

  Stephen took the striker, which consisted of a flint and steel and a small box containing some tinder. He put the box on the floor, struck the flint and steel over the tinder until sparks jumped off and ignited the tinder. He blew on the tinder to give it life and reached for the candle. He entered the hall with the candle while Dungon stooped to blow out the tinder.

  He did not get on all fours this time, but bent low as he could, examining the floor. He should have done this before, but he had not thought of it until now. He was always forgetting obvious measures of this sort, and just bungled along. It was a wonder he ever found out anything at all. It was a good thing people had not seen through his façade of competence, or his reputation, little as it was, would be even lower. And like all people, he treasured his reputation more than the contents of his purse.

  “What are you doing, may I ask . . . sir?” Dungon asked from the doorway.

  “Just being careful.”

  “Waste of time . . . sir.”

  Stephen straightened up. “Yes, the dirt’s packed hard.” Besides, if an intruder had passed through the hall to Mistress Bartelot’s chamber, Dungon’s feet and Stephen’s would likely have obscured the marks. He did not say this to Dungon and avoided her eye.

  “Mind blowing out the candle . . . sir? It’s our only one.”

  “Right.” He blew out the flame and tossed Dungon the candle.

  “Now to your room. Yours is the one of the left, I believe?”

  “That’s what I said . . . sir.”

  Stephen climbed the stairs, conscious of the proximity of Dungon’s nose. A hallway led to the rear of the house, where another window overlooked the garden. It, too, was open to admit the light and what fresh air the spring breeze happened to bring.

  He entered Dungon’s room. It was an ordinary room with ordinary furnishings, but unlike Mistress Bartelot’s room, it looked as though someone actually lived in it: a frame bed with shabby curtains; a chair with a pillow on it by the window for taking one’s ease and the view of the yard with its depleted woodpile, privy and expanse of grass that could use the attentions of a few goats to keep it in check; and the similar gardens of the neighbors. A wardrobe stood in the corner. Stephen crossed to the wardrobe and opened it. It was empty but for two folded gowns on one shelf and several lace wimples, one of which looked quite expensive, folded on another. A spare pair of shoes and wooden pattens, the sandals that shielded good shoes from the mud, occupied the bottom shelf.

  There was nowhere to hide stolen spoons unless Dungon had fashioned a secret cupboard in the walls. But that possibility seemed unlikely and he had already appeared silly enough that he didn’t want the embarrassment of being seen tapping about in a search for a concealed hiding place.

  “Satisfied . . . sir?” Dungon asked from the doorway. “Finished prying?

  “Everything seems in order.”

  “Mistress Bartelot is fond of order.”

  It had grown late by the time Stephen finished at Mistress Bartelot’s house, and, with regret, he turned away from the inn and the breakfast that should have been waiting for him.

  He was several long strides toward Raven Lane when he heard Gilbert Wistwode’s voice calling to him. He paused for Gilbert to catch up. Gilbert unfolded a cloth in his hand and held out several strips of bacon and a piece of cake.

  “I thought you might want this,” Gilbert said.

  “Thank you, Gilbert. That was very thoughtful.” Stephen thrust a strip of bacon in his mouth. He had developed a fondness for bacon, although people of the gentry did not eat it. Nor did they eat upon the street like some common person, but he was hungry and there was no one about.

  “Jennie was about to give it to Harry, but I thought it best go to you.”

  “Poor Harry,” Stephen said, chewing on his bacon, confident that while Gilbert might think he had intervened to keep Jennie and Harry apart, in all likelihood Jennie would see that Harry did not go hungry. Jennie was not supposed to have anything to do with Harry after he had got her in trouble with the law for an unlicensed business they were conducting together. But the two found ways to spend time together despite the opposition of Jennie’s parents. “Had yours already?”

  Gilbert patted his ample stomach. “I make it a rule never to leave home without breakfast.”

  “Even for such a small errand as this?”

  “You don’t think you’re going to the castle alone, do you? You’re going to need my reassurances when they reject you again.”

  “This time will be different. They need every man. Besides, I proved myself at Montgomery.” Not long ago, Stephen had ridden out on a raid into Wales from Old Montgomery, the aged timber fortress that guarded a major ford of the River Severn. He felt he had done well enough to put aside anyone’s misgivings about his abilities despite the fact things had turned out badly.

  “That was a terrible failure. All those men killed! No one wants to remember it. And they won’t take kindly to your reminder.”

  “My reminder?”

  “Well, you will no doubt boast of your role.”

  “I am a modest person. I do not boast. I shall merely state fact — that I can ride in battle as well as anyone. I came through it without being unhorsed.”

  “And that will be enough to remind everyone that two prominent people died in the debacle.”

  “That wasn’t my fault.”

  “Yet the fault may be laid at your doorstep. When there is failure, people always look for someone to blame. It doesn’t matter if the accusation is true. I should be careful about it, if I were you.”

  Stephen, who had not wanted to hear this advice, stepped faster, leaving Gilbert a few paces behind. Gilbert broke into a waddling run to catch up. He grasped Stephen’s sleeve. “Have a care for a poor old man!”

  “You’re not that old, not even forty yet.” Nevertheless, Stephen slowed his pace.

  “Old enough,” Gilbert said, panting from his exertion. “I am your elder, and you should heed my wisdom.”

  “I shall heed it as much as Edith.”

  “Which means you will pay no attention.”

  “Exactly.”

  “I don’t know why I bother! There is no hope for you, any more than there is for Harry.”

  “You bother because Sir Geoff pays you to do it.”

  “Not enough. Not hardly enough with all the trouble we’ve been in. And he’s late again with my stipend.”

  “Yes, I’m feeling the pinch as well. I’ve creditors hiding behind every tree.”

  “No, you don’t. You’ve only one or two at most. Try running an inn. You’ll know then what it’s like to be hounded by creditors.”

  “Unless you’re a lord with too much debt.”

  “True. They’re the worst when it comes to dodging creditors. You should avoid that fate when you have your own manor.”

  “That seems unlikely, the way things have gone.”

  “There is always hope.”

  “There is always false hope.”

  “Don’t give up. Some heiress will take pity on a handsome fellow like you.”

  “You know women don’t marry for looks. They weigh a man’s purse first before deciding.”

  “That’s not always true. Edith chose me for my wonderful qualities, none of which had anything to do with my wealth. Seeing that I had just fled from my monastery, there was little to recommend me on that score.”

  “She is the exception.”

  “She certainly is exceptional,” Gilbert said with affection.<
br />
  Quite so, Stephen thought.

  “There is,” Gilbert ventured, “Lady Margaret. She seems fond of you. Although now that I think about it, she is a bit calculating.”

  “I would rather not discuss Lady Margaret.” Stephen was not sure what to think of the Lady Margaret de Thottenham. She had been much in his thoughts since they had met and contested over a lost list of supporters of the rebel Simon de Montfort to the point of crowding out of his mind the memory of a woman he had truly loved and wished more than anything he had not lost. Contemplating Margaret seemed at times almost like a betrayal of Taresa’s memory, especially as Gilbert was right: Margaret could not be trusted. She looked to her own advantage in everything and damn the consequences on anyone else. Yet she was so lovely that this was easily overlooked.

  “Yes, she is a touchy subject,” Gilbert said as they climbed Raven Lane to High Street. “Best you not see her again, I suppose.”

  “I said I would not discuss Lady Margaret.”

  “Well, it is time you put your grief aside and started thinking of the future. You have a son to provide for, and you’ve paid scant attention to him.”

  “You are not my conscience. I will see to my duty in my own time.”

  “Someone must shake you out of your present doldrums. Harry isn’t up to it. So it will have to be me.”

  “I am doing well enough on my own.”

  “Of course you are. I’ll just give you a needed shove now and then.”

  “You want me to leave the nest?”

  “It’s not that I want it. It’s just inevitable. You can’t remain where you are. We all know the many reasons for that, least of which is our friend Percival FitzAllan. You’ll leave eventually and I’ll be left to train up another deputy, undoubtedly someone who is far more of a dolt than you are.”

  “You’re calling me a dolt now?”

  “Did I? Forgive me if I gave that impression. It’s just that all the other deputies have been wanting. It dismays me to have to guide another.”

  They turned onto High Street and headed toward the castle, which occupied the ridge at the northwest corner of the town. The merchants and shopkeepers who lived here were leaving their houses with their families and heading east toward Saint Laurence’s Church for the Mass at Prime, which occasioned the exchange of volleys of good days and how are you’s before Stephen and Gilbert got by the crowds and passed through the castle’s main gate.

  The spectacle within — of tents and the great paddock erected to the north within the outer bailey — warmed Stephen’s heart. Here the army of the March was gathering and would march out soon to confront the Welsh.

  He and Gilbert hurried through the tent village, and met Sir Geoffrey Randall, Stephen’s employer, at the gatehouse to the inner bailey.

  “Good morning to you, Attebrook,” Randall said, leaning on his cane before he wagged it at Stephen. “Must hurry. The Mass already started.”

  “Gout bothering you again, sir?” Stephen asked as they clumped across the bridge spanning the inner ditch.

  “A touch, just a touch. Not enough to slow me down.”

  Stephen wasn’t sure about this since Sir Geoffrey was favoring his right foot so much that he hardly walked upon it. But it was not tactful to contradict the coroner. “Of course, sir. You look quite fit, actually.”

  “I do. Yes, I do. Looking forward to getting into the field again. The last time it was just a lot of riding around in the rain. Beastly, it was.” The reference was to the recent campaign against the Welsh by an English army brought to the March by Prince Edward. It had wandered into Wales and relieved a few sieges, but the Welsh had melted into the hills and mountains of their miserable country and refused battle. Now word was things would be different. The English, what there was of them now, would give the Welsh the thrashing they deserved.

  A familiar figure was in earnest conversation at the chapel doors as Stephen and Randall came up. The two men drew apart when they realized their words might be overheard. The familiar person turned in Stephen’s direction, a sardonic and false smile on his lips; the other gazed at the sky as if measuring the weather, although the sky was almost cloudless, an unusual condition for England.

  “Well,” said the familiar person, “look who’s here.”

  “Good day to you, FitzSimmons,” Stephen said. “I belong here. It’s you who are out of place.”

  “We may have our differences,” Nigel FitzSimmons replied, “but we have our common enemies. I have as much to lose as anyone in the shire from marauding Welshmen. So I’ve answered the summons, same as any sensible man with estates here.”

  People of the gentry often had their differences with those who lived about them, but the differences separating Stephen and FitzSimmons were both small and great. There was bad blood between them arising from the death of one of FitzSimmons’ cousins last fall, and there were larger political ones as well. Stephen was allied with Randall who was a supporter of the King. The rule that the lower men embraced the loyalties of those above them required that he also followed the King. FitzSimmons was a supporter of Simon de Montfort. De Montfort, the king’s brother-in-law, led a faction of barons determined to diminish the king’s power and to substitute members of their own party for the nobles now at the King’s elbow. FitzSimmons was also a friend of Margaret de Thottenham’s. It had been at FitzSimmon’s bidding that she had fought Stephen for possession of a secret list which had set out who in Herefordshire and Shropshire supported the King and who supported de Montfort.

  “I say, Crauford,” Randall said to the elegant young man beside FitzSimmons, “what are you doing here? I thought you were at Windsor.”

  “I am under normal circumstances,” Crauford said, “but I’ve come with a contingent of men in answer to the Marcher lords’ call for aid.”

  “How many have you brought?” Randall asked.

  “Forty.”

  “I see. Knights and sergeants, I hope. We can’t have enough of them.”

  “Crossbowmen, actually.”

  “Oh.” Randall looked disappointed. “Mercenaries, then.”

  “I am afraid so,” Crauford said.

  “I am forgetting my manners,” Randall said. “Forgive me. Attebrook, this is Maurice Crauford. Crauford — Attebrook.”

  “So you’re Attebrook,” Crauford said. “I’ve heard about you. You’re the fellow who knocked Nigel off his horse.”

  “Yes,” Stephen said, glancing at FitzSimmons who was frowning at this reference to a duel they had fought last autumn in which Stephen had emerged the victor, more by luck than skill.

  “How did you manage it, owing to your condition, I mean? Without a foot one can hardly ride properly, can one.”

  “Oh, you know about that.”

  “Well, it’s hardly a secret.”

  “Nothing is, it seems.”

  “Tell me, did it hurt? Losing your foot, I mean. I heard it was chopped off by a Moor.”

  “I only lost part of the foot, not all of it. And no, I hardly felt it. The infection that came afterward was worse.”

  “Well, in any case, congratulations on your victory,” Crauford said with a smile.

  “Shall we go in?” FitzSimmons said, and without waiting for an answer, for none really was expected, he entered the chapel.

  “I suppose we should,” Randall murmured, for the tension in the air at the mention of the duel had been so thick one could barely breathe.

  “How do you get away with saying such things to FitzSimmons’ face?” Stephen asked Crauford.

  “Oh,” Crauford said, “we’re cousins. On opposite sides, it seems, over de Montfort and his reforms, but still family. You know how it is: Every family has its black sheep.”

  “Indeed,” Stephen said as he followed Crauford into the chapel, for he was the black sheep of his own family.

  Stephen and Gilbert stood at the back of the crowd in the round chapel and did not go forward at the end when many took communion. Stephen wan
ted to avoid making contact with Percival FitzAllan, who was near the head of the line with Roger Mortimer. They were almost brothers now that FitzAllan’s son had married Mortimer’s daughter. Mortimer, one of the most powerful men in the March, probably had not cared a fig about Stephen, although Stephen’s home and where his brother still lived was only a few miles from Wigmore, but FitzAllan surely had poisoned his mind by now, or would, given a reminder.

  The crowd went into the hall after mass. Planning for the coming war could not be put off by the fact it was Sunday.

  Stephen and Gilbert were the last up the steps to the hall. As they entered and took a place at the back of the crowd of leading men, Gilbert murmured, “So that was Crauford.”

  “What about him?”

  “You haven’t heard? Wattepas has betrothed his youngest daughter to him. I’m surprised that a dandy like Crauford would take such a wife, the daughter of a craftsman.”

  “I’ve heard she’s a beautiful girl.”

  “That’s true, but you were just saying that people of your class don’t rest their marriages on simple attraction. There must be a substantial dowry, as I hear that Crauford has the gentry’s disease.”

  “Mountainous debt?” Stephen guessed.

  “Exactly.”

  “Well, Lucy Wattepas is a Mortimer, though from a minor branch. Perhaps that was an enticement.”

  “I wouldn’t think it was an enticement as much as a mark in her favor to weigh along with the money she should bring to the arrangement.”

  “I suppose you’re right.”

  The senior men gathered about Mortimer, a broad-shouldered man with a receding hairline and a perpetual scowl.

  “There are only a thousand of us!” one of the senior men exclaimed. “What can we do?”

  “There a thousand foot, two hundred archers and two hundred horse, to be precise,” Mortimer said.

  “But we’ll be outnumbered!”

  “We’re more than enough for that rabble,” another man said.

  “The Welsh aren’t a rabble,” Randall said. “Any more than our foot are a rabble.”

  “Well, they are that,” someone said.