[Stephen Attebrook 11] - Missing Page 2

  “We were attacked last night,” Ida said.

  “Attacked!?”

  “Englishmen, by their speech,” she said.

  “What?” Gilbert asked.

  “The whole village burned to the ground,” Ida said.

  “Oh, dear! I’m so sorry!”

  “Montfort’s doing,” said a voice behind them. It was Harry, the legless woodcarver. He had heard their voices, and pulled himself up to the sill of his shop window at the front of Stephen’s townhouse. “A Montfort army took Wigmore four days ago and have been using it to raid the manors of men loyal to the king thereabout. We just heard news of all this yesterday, didn’t we, Gilbert? Or have you forgotten already.”

  “I have not forgotten!” Gilbert said. “I would have said something if you hadn’t butted in.”

  “And neither of you sent word?” Stephen asked. “I’d like to have known this.”

  Gilbert prodded a stone in the road with a toe. “It was late yesterday. Travelers from the south who just reached us at nightfall. No time to reach you. I was going to ride out today, you see …” he said in a lame tone.

  Stephen decided to let this pass. Even if he’d got a warning, it wouldn’t have made any difference.

  “So, they took Wigmore?” he asked, trying for nonchalance so as not to reveal his astonishment, which was rather hard, for his teeth chattered again and he gave a mighty shiver. Wigmore was a massive castle to the southwest. It was the seat of the powerful Mortimer family, supporters of the king. It had withstood many attacks by the Welsh. That it had fallen seemed impossible.

  “A ruse, we heard,” said Joan, a slender blonde girl Ida’s age as she emerged from the door to the shop. She was the housekeeper of Stephen’s townhouse and Harry’s close friend, with an emphasis on close given their recent sleeping arrangements.

  “Had to be, unless there was betrayal,” Harry said with authority, as if he knew something first-hand about the taking of castles, which he didn’t.

  “It’s true?” Stephen turned to Gilbert, who nodded.

  “There’s word of raids on manors to the south,” Gilbert said. “This is the first we’ve heard of one so far north.”

  “Our lucky day,” Stephen said, his teeth chattering again. The gambeson was still sodden and he was freezing in it.

  “Let’s get you out of that thing,” Ida said, pushing Stephen toward the door. “I won’t have you dropping dead in the street.”

  The approach of a woman coming toward them from Broad Street interrupted Ida’s efforts. The newcomer was well-dressed in a burgundy cloak and a green linen gown, as if she was from a well-off merchant family or minor gentry. Her cap was a brilliant white and looked new. She had high cheekbones, a firm jaw and grey eyes that looked as though they could be self-possessed but now were wide with horror.

  The woman walked by Stephen and stopped in front of Harry. Her hands hovered over Harry’s stumps as if she wanted to touch them — the legs had been amputated above the knees after a cart ran over him and the wounds festered. Most men could not survive such an injury, much less the radical surgery that followed, but Harry had pulled through. The scars were a nasty sight when uncovered, but since Harry had stopped begging for a living, he had kept them tastefully concealed within a pair of shortened stockings. Joan had woven this pair with stags on them in brown against a green background.

  “I’m sorry, Harry,” the woman said.

  Joan stared at the newcomer and then at Harry. “Harry! Who is this woman?”

  “I’m his wife,” the woman said.

  “Megge,” Harry said dully.

  The name hung in the air, buoyed by Harry’s shocked tone when he uttered it.

  “What are you doing here?” Harry asked.

  “I’ve come back,” Megge said.

  “Back where?” Harry asked.

  “Back to you, my love.”

  Chapter 3

  “Back to Harry,” Joan said in a voice that could turn an ordinary person to stone.

  “That’s what I said,” Megge replied, apparently impervious to the tone. She spoke next to Harry. “Oh, love, I’m so sorry that I haven’t been there for you.” Her hands again reached out for Harry but some invisible force above his knees stayed them in mid-flight. The hands withdrew, then went out again, this time grasping Harry’s great mallet-sized hand. “Can you forgive me?”

  Harry tried to disengage his hand but without success. He eyed Joan. He knew that look she wore and that tone meant trouble, and he better say or do the right thing.

  Megge caught the look and detected some significance in it. “Who is that, Harry?”

  “That’s Joan,” Harry said. “My friend.”

  “A friend?” Megge said in a way that indicated she understood the difference between friendship and friendship, and what this was. “I am here now, love. I’ll take care of you.”

  When Harry did not immediately reply, Megge said to Joan, “You’ll be moving out, then?”

  “And why would I do that?” Joan said. She flicked a strand of blonde hair back under her cap and crossed her arms.

  “Because Harry doesn’t need you now,” Megge said.

  “Whether I stay or go isn’t up to Harry,” Joan said. “It’s Sir Stephen’s and Lady Ida’s decision. I work for them.”

  “I see,” Megge said. “Isn’t this your house, Harry?”

  “No,” Harry said. “I just live here. It’s Stephen’s and Ida’s house.”

  “Joan is our housekeeper and watches Sir Stephen’s son,” Ida said in a voice as cold as Joan’s, which showed which side she had picked.

  “I beg your pardon, my lady,” Megge said. She could not resist an up-and-down inspection of Ida’s filthy, rude gown, and the corners of Megge’s mouth twitched in a judgment she could not, or cared not, to conceal.

  “Perhaps it would be best if you took a room at the Broken Shield,” Ida said. “Until we have all this sorted out.”

  “What sorted out, my lady?” Megge asked.

  “The matter of your abandonment of your husband,” Ida said.

  “But I —” Megge started to say.

  “We know the story,” Ida said, cutting Megge off. “Harry lost his legs and you left him to die. But he survived. And you did not come back when he needed you most. He was forced to survive on the street as a beggar — something he would not have had to do if you had done your duty by him.”

  Megge opened her mouth to answer this charge, but Ida again cut her off. “Gilbert!”

  “Yes, my lady,” Gilbert said. He looked askance at Ida, knowing that something was coming that he might not like much.

  “Isn’t Stephen’s old chamber at the inn vacant?” Ida asked. Stephen had lived in an upper chamber at the back of the inn usually reserved for servants when he first came to Ludlow.

  “Ahem, aha,” Gilbert cleared his throat. “I believe it is.”

  “Then, since it was good enough for Stephen, it should be more than good enough for Megge,” Ida said. “On our charge.” Stephen was a quarter owner of the inn and it wasn’t outside the prerogatives of part owners to ask for such favors.

  She turned to Stephen, who was still desperately cold in his sodden gambeson, and wished he was somewhere else and that this was not happening.

  “Don’t you agree, Stephen?” Ida asked.

  “I think that’s a good idea,” Stephen said. The last thing he wanted was to have to share a roof with Harry, Joan and Megge. Harry alone was difficult enough.

  After Megge left with Gilbert for the Broken Shield, Joan retreated into the house. She made sure that Stephen’s three-year-old son Christopher had not killed himself while her attention was elsewhere, and sought refuge in the busywork of making dinner. Not that this required much attention. Since she expected she had only Harry and Christopher to feed, she had planned a simple pottage of onions, carrots, cabbage, beans, and the odd scrap of meat. This concoction practically cooked itself. All it required was the occasional stir,
attention to the fire and adjustments to the position of the kettle so the soup simmered and didn’t boil. Today, however, the pottage demanded a lot of stirring. Moreover, the smell, something she had enjoyed in the past, had become nauseating. Still, she thought that this work would divert her mind from what had just happened, but she was wrong. She seethed with powerful emotions. She should talk to Harry, but she felt that if she tried, she’d end up screaming. Or crying.

  Stephen and Ida, meanwhile, climbed the stairs to their bedchamber over the shop at the front of the house. Mistress Bartelot, a spare, severe woman who occupied the rear bedchamber, returned from the baker’s with two great round loaves that filled the hall with what should be a mouthwatering aroma but instead made Joan’s stomach curl.

  Mistress Bartelot broke off a chunk for Christopher while eying Joan with suspicion. Joan feared she might remark on the morning’s events. While they had occurred only a short time ago, news of people’s affairs had a way of getting around town very quickly, and Mistress Bartelot was more attuned to the town gossip than anyone Joan knew. Joan prepared a retort just in case she said anything about the sudden appearance of Harry’s wife and what that meant for the household and the future. But Mistress Bartelot did not say anything other than to ask if Joan was all right.

  Joan shook her head and stirred the soup, breathing as little as she could while she did so.

  She heard Harry muttering to himself in his workshop. The muttering stopped, replaced by Megge’s and Harry’s voices in conversation. Every word, even though indistinct, cut her heart.

  Ida came downstairs and asked Mistress Bartelot if she would kindly hang Stephen’s gambeson out to dry. The gambeson was a big coat of padded canvas that was heavy, sodden and still dripping. Mistress Bartelot struggled with it, not wishing to get her gown wet, and not having much luck there. Joan left her spoon in the pot and grasped the hem of the gambeson.

  “Let me help you, mistress,” Joan said.

  “Thank you,” Mistress Bartelot said, relieved. She even smiled slightly. A smile was a rare thing from Mistress Bartelot; she might indulge in such an expression once or twice a year, usually at word that someone had received his just comeuppance. Mistress Bartelot disapproved of Joan’s closeness to Harry outside matrimony; perhaps she took some satisfaction in Megge’s appearance.

  They lugged the gambeson into the rear garden and flung it over the line in the woodshed where it should be safe from any rain that happened this way.

  Joan panted at the effort, her hands on her knees. She felt dizzy. She was embarrassed by this, since although she was small and thin, she thought of herself as tough. She had had a hard life in Yorkshire before she came here, and had suffered at the hands of the same men who had savaged Ida. Yet she had emerged whole from the mental and physical torture of last summer when she had been kidnapped and raped before her rescue by Stephen and Gilbert.

  The dizziness suddenly got worse. Joan bent over and threw up.

  Mistress Bartelot wiped Joan’s mouth with her apron. “How far along are you, my dear?” she asked. Her voice was unexpectedly kind.

  Joan gasped for breath. She heaved again, but nothing came out this time. “It’s been almost four weeks since my last time,” she said.

  “Does Harry know?” Mistress Bartelot asked.

  “I haven’t said anything yet,” Joan said. “I really wasn’t sure.”

  “Oh, dear,” Mistress Bartelot said. “This makes the current mess even more sticky.” She put an arm around Joan’s shoulders. “Come on. Let’s get you inside.”

  Stephen heard voices in Harry’s shop when he returned from Ludlow Castle after reporting the burning of Halton Priors to the constable, Walter Henle, whose job included keeping order in the area. Harry and Megge were talking in low tones in the shop. The shop windows were open, so Stephen could hear what they were saying, but it was wrong to listen, so he hurried into the hallway leading by the entrance to the shop to the hall.

  But as Stephen passed the shop’s doorway, he could not help overhearing Harry say, “Megge, you haven’t said a thing about how the boys are. Why didn’t you bring them?”

  Megge’s pause was long enough for Stephen to reach the hall entrance but too quick for him to pass through, and he heard her reply with an odd deadness to her voice, “I’m sorry, Harry. They’re dead.”

  That brought Stephen up short, despite his better judgment. He’d known Harry had two sons, although Harry had never spoken of them other than once to let Stephen know about their existence.

  Stephen expected to hear immediate expressions of grief both from Megge and Harry, but an odd silence followed Megge’s disclosure.

  “How?” Harry asked at last.

  “The plague,” Megge said, her voice still curiously flat.

  “The plague?” Harry repeated.

  “I don’t know,” Megge said. “A sickness.”

  Again there was a long pause, while Stephen remained rooted to the threshold.

  “And you waited until now to tell me?” Harry asked. “Why wasn’t that the first thing out of your mouth? Instead, it was take me back, Harry, and now, oh, by the way, Theo and John are dead.”

  “I’m sorry, Harry,” Megge said. “I suppose I should have said something sooner.”

  There was another long pause. Ida saw Stephen in the doorway and came to his side, a disapproving expression on her face. She could tell he was listening to Harry and Megge.

  “Megge says Harry’s boys are dead,” Stephen whispered to her as if that might lessen his culpability.

  This revelation drove away her disapproval at Stephen’s breach of manners. Her hand flew to her mouth. “Oh, dear! Poor Harry!” Then she whispered back, “They had children?” For she had not heard about the boys, since Harry had not spoken of them around her.

  “Two,” Stephen whispered. “Megge left with them when Harry had his accident.”

  “You were always one to think of yourself first,” Harry said at last.

  “I said, I’m sorry, Harry,” Megge said.

  “Those are some fine clothes you’re wearing,” Harry said. “How does a handyman’s wife afford clothes like those?” Before he had turned to begging after he lost his legs, Harry had been a farmer and handyman, doing odd jobs for anyone with a spare penny, as well as some illegal things that were not discussed around Stephen’s house. “Did you take a turn at whoring?”

  “You always were a bastard,” Megge said.

  “Well?”

  “No!” Megge spat. “I am not a whore!”

  “Did you sell them?” Harry spat back sarcastically.

  More silence followed.

  “You did, didn’t you!” Harry exclaimed. “I see it on your face!”

  Sound of a scuffle followed, punctuated by a choked scream.

  Stephen could not ignore this, and rushed into the shop.

  Megge was on her back where Harry had thrown her, and Harry was on top of Megge, who rolled him off. But his great hands were locked around her throat. Harry shook Megge so that her head wobbled back and forth. Megge’s eyes bulged and her tongue protruded.

  Stephen grasped one of Harry’s massive arms to pull him from Megge, but Harry was so strong that even when Ida joined him their combined strength wasn’t enough to break his hold.

  “What did you do with them!” Harry shouted. “Did you sell them?”

  “She can’t tell you while you’re choking her, Harry,” Stephen said.

  Harry gaped at Stephen as if just realizing he was there. His grip relaxed, and Stephen and Ida were able to pull Harry away. Megge sat up, both hands on her injured throat.

  “What did happen to the boys, Megge?” Stephen asked. “Did you sell them?”

  Megge glared at them, hands still on her throat.

  “It was either that or all of us starve,” she said.

  Stephen and Ida looked at each other, appalled at Megge’s confession. A person selling himself or his children into villeinage was not un
known but it was a drastic measure. Desperately poor people sometimes did so for food, a roof over their heads and protection. But Megge did not look desperate or starving.

  Harry pulled at Megge’s belt pouch. She tried to resist, but Harry was far too strong. He delved into it and came out with a purse. Megge snatched at the purse, but Harry evaded her. He upended the purse over his palm. Four pennies fell out.

  “This is all you have left?” Harry sneered. “You’ve spent the lot?”

  Megge did not reply.

  “And that’s why you’re here now,” Harry went on. “You’ve run through all your money. You’ve nothing left. And you found out from the family that I’ve a craft now and I’m making money.”

  “Harry,” Megge pleaded. “I made terrible mistakes. I do love you. I’m sorry for what I’ve done.” She reached out a hand to Harry, weeping. “You have to help me get them back.”

  Harry batted Megge’s hand away and flung the purse and the pennies at her.

  “Get out,” he growled. “Get out before I do something I’ll regret.”

  “You won’t send me away, will you, Harry? After all we went through?”

  Harry swung himself around on his fists and closed his eyes.

  “I think you’d better go,” Stephen said to Megge.

  “Where are they?” Harry said without turning around as Megge staggered to her feet. “Who bought them?”

  “A man named Morecok,” Megge said.

  She remained there a few moments, then went out.

  The door slammed.

  Harry drew several deep breaths.

  “Stephen,” Harry said, his voice shaking. “I need a favor.”

  “Anything,” Stephen said promptly, although he had the bad feeling that this would lead to a lot of difficulty and expense, which he could ill afford with the destruction of Halton Priors. Yet he could not say anything else.

  “You’re good at finding things. Will you find my boys and bring them back to me?”

  Chapter 4