The outlaws, p.17
The Outlaws, page 17
Eustace dragged the body off the path into the tall grass beside it, hoping that it would not be found until the morning. He cut William’s purse, and emptied the contents into his hand, fumbling the silver pennies, which he stuffed into his own purse, fearful that someone would come along. He dropped William’s purse on the dead man’s chest so that when the body was found people would think that the motive for the killing was robbery.
He was about to leave when he noticed the clasp to William’s cloak. It looked to be made of silver in the form of a cross with a polished blue stone. No self-respecting thief would leave such a jewel behind. Eustace cut it free.
Glancing backward now and then, he slipped back to his tent.
He sat on his cot, shivering and breathing so hard that the valet sleeping on the other side of the tent woke up. “Are you ill, my lord?” the valet asked.
“I’m fine. Go back to sleep.”
Eustace wished he could do the same, not that he was likely to even if he lay down now. But he had one thing left to do. He fumbled in the arrow bag beside the cot for an arrow.
He waited until the valet’s breathing indicated he had fallen asleep.
Then he tip-toed out into the night.
CHAPTER 17
Ludlow
September 1179
The normal rules governing bedtime were suspended during fairs, and having no curfew outside the town, people in the tent village stayed up late. With father in the town, Giselle had taken advantage and accepted an invitation from the daughter of a knight from Stanton Lacy. The girls had a tent of their own and had played dice — a thing normally forbidden to women of their class — and backgammon and chattered away while a hired minstrel played and sang until nearly midnight. They had all felt so wicked.
So she slept later than usual. The sun was above the line of trees along Linney Lane by the time Giselle emerged from the tent, wondering what wonderful things she would do today. This was the last day of the fair and she had to make the most of it.
Cook was preparing breakfast at the small table they had brought with them, his long face longer than usual. Athelhild, who had risen earlier although she had been with Giselle, also was quiet, glancing at the town with a concerned look. Athelhild bent to ask Osgar something. Osgar, squatting by the fire with his father Burghard, shook his head.
“What’s the matter?” Giselle asked.
“Your father didn’t return last night,” Athelhild said.
“He isn’t here?”
“No. No one knows where he is. The last anyone saw him he was at the bear baiting.”
It was very odd that William would go anywhere without any of his people knowing about it. Perhaps he had tarried at one of the whorehouses in town. Giselle had never known him to do that, and with Matilda now in the house that seemed unlikely. But it was the only thing she could think of, repellant as the thought was, and she rejected it.
Off toward the town there was shouting and a crowd began to gather not far from a large oak tree whose limbs were so massive that the lower ones touched the ground. A party of men separated from the crowd and ran toward the tent village. They made their way to the de Hafton camp and stopped before the fire. They removed their caps and stood awkwardly as if none of them quite knew what to say. One of them asked Giselle, “Are you Sir William’s daughter?”
“I am,” Giselle replied with a mounting sense of unease.
“You need to come right away.”
“What is it?”
“It’s your father. Someone’s killed him.”
The crowd parted for Giselle. They were quiet now, and she was conscious of the sweeping sound her skirts made upon the grass and the call of a robin in the oak tree. The path people made for her led up to a crumpled thing lying in the grass which looked more like a pile of discarded laundry than a man. But it had been a man once.
Giselle knelt by the body, so chilled by shock that she wasn’t sure she could breathe, let alone cry. There were several hundred sets of eyes on her now. It was not the time for that sort of weakness.
The finders must have discovered William on his stomach, for his legs were crossed at the ankles, and his hair lay across his face. Giselle smooth the strands away. His eyes were open as if he was looking into the distance, and there was a great gash on his neck where his throat had been cut. The slash was so deep and savage that his windpipe was visible, and there was a lot of blood soaking his clothing and the ground where he lay. An arrow showed above William’s right shoulder, pressed down by the weight of his body. Giselle struggled to turn William to get a look at the wound, but she could not manage alone. When helping hands turned William on his side, she saw the arrow had penetrated his back just below the right shoulder blade. She released William’s shoulder and he settled on his back again.
One man held out an empty purse. “Was this your father’s, my lady?”
Giselle nodded, not yet trusting herself to speak. She noticed that the silver clasp William always wore on his cloak, a gift from her mother, was gone too. A coin dropped by the killer glistened in the grass by William’s head.
“A robbery,” the man said. “It was pure robbery and murder!”
The respectful quiet that had prevailed vanished in a wave of condemnation, for no one tolerated robbery or murder. They were the worst crimes anyone could commit, worse even than rape.
Giselle heard the tumult as if it was far away. She felt disconnected from it, from the indignation, from the whole world itself. She stood as though upon the edge of a great chasm, one foot poised in space over the brink. Just moments ago, her life had been solid, certain. Now, in a heartbeat, it had unraveled so profoundly that it would never be whole and complete again. What was she going to do?
Osgar took her arm in a manner that was tender yet insistent, and more familiar than she should allow. His whole face was contorted with grief, tears streaming down his cheeks and falling onto his chest, tears she could not yet shed.
“My lady,” he managed to say after several false starts, “come away. This isn’t a fit sight for you. Let us take care of him. He’ll be all right.”
Although how William would ever again be all right she could not fathom.
“No,” she said. “I shall go with him. Please have someone fetch something we can use to carry him back.”
She waited there in the field, feeling more alone than she had ever thought it possible to feel, until poles and a blanket were found to make a stretcher.
Before they could go, however, they had to wait for the undersheriff, the local coroner being too indisposed by drink to perform his duties, to conduct the initial inquiry into the death.
It wasn’t long before the undersheriff appeared, a big young man named Gilbert of the Braz de Fer family, minor tenants of the FitzWalters, and three deputies. Braz de Fer examined the body, then broke off the arrow head and drew out the arrow himself. “Well, it’s pretty clear what happened. Someone lay in wait and shot the gentleman in the back and then slit his throat while he lay wounded.”
He showed the shaft to the assembly and asked, “Has anyone seen this work before?”
An arrow shaft might appear indistinguishable from another, but there were subtle differences of style and workmanship, such as in the trimming and binding of the fletching and the form of the head. This shaft also had three rings painted on the wood just ahead of the fletching, marks of ownership in red, yellow and red. It was not uncommon to paint the shaft bright colors so that it could be found in the forest if a shot went wild.
A man dressed in a brown wool shirt and gray stockings spoke up. “I have.”
“Who are you?” Braz de Fer asked.
“Hugh of How Chapel.”
“What can you tell us?”
“There was a man from Shelburgh who made arrows like this. He peddled them at the Ludlow and Hereford markets now and then. I have a few myself.”
“Do you remember his name?”
“It was Nicholas . . . Nicholas Attebrook.”
Braz de Fer spotted Eustace at the edge of the crowd. “I remember that name. The poacher who died escaping the earl’s gaol.”
Eustace nodded. “The one whose nephew tried to get him out, and went outlaw afterwards.”
“Right. I don’t recall his name.”
“Robert, also Attebrook. He had been a clerk or something like that in Gloucester, or so I’m told. He’s a desperate fellow. He killed my cousin.”
“Yes, I remember it now. Bad business.” Braz de Fer nodded. “He’s not the one you’ve put two pounds on, is he?”
“The very one.”
“This was cold work. A man like him could have done this,” Braz de Fer said, tapping the arrow shaft against a palm. “Fairs are good places to find men with money. Like a flock of sheep to a wolf.”
“It could be anyone in Shropshire,” Hugh of How Chapel said. “Many have arrows like that.”
“Could be,” Braz de Fer said. “What provisions have you made to take care of your father’s body?” he asked Giselle.
Giselle shook her head. She hadn’t thought that far ahead yet.
Eustace spoke before she could answer. “We’ll take care of it. We’re neighbors.”
“What a stroke of luck,” FitzWalter said over the rim of his wine cup.
Blanche, seated beside him outside their tent, looked pleased. She crossed her legs at the ankles and leaned over to smooth a scuff on her boot. “Eustace is right. Now it’s just a matter of securing the wardship. You can take what you like out of Hafton then, with no one to complain.”
“Wardships are one thing,” FitzWalter said, “but we need to take the long view.” He shook a finger at Eustace. “I’ll have you married to that little bitch before next spring. Then that shitty piece of dirt comes back into my honor.”
“That is as it should be, my lord,” Eustace murmured. In his haste to rid himself of one problem, he had not thought of the possibility that FitzWalter would want to marry him to the girl after having secured the wardship. But he should have foreseen it. He seethed that FitzWalter would force him into such a low and unprofitable marriage. It showed what contempt FitzWalter had for him.
Well, he thought, if it came to that, there were many ways to rid yourself of an unwanted wife.
CHAPTER 18
Ludlow
September 1179
No one thought of dinner after the finding of William’s body. Osgar and Burghard went to find a wagon for hire to take the body home, and were gone for most of the day. Athelhild went up to the town to buy linen for the shroud. Cook asked Giselle if she wanted something to eat, but she declined and remained on a stool by the pallet where they had laid her father while the servants ate scraps.
Athelhild returned in midafternoon with a roll of linen, and then there was a long search for a needle and thread, since no one had thought to bring any, and they had to borrow them from a neighbor.
At last when these few preparations had been made, Athelhild knelt beside Giselle. “We must undress him first.”
Giselle rose. “I can’t do it. I can’t touch him.”
“I understand. I’ll take care of it. You go.”
Giselle nodded, at once relieved and ashamed. It was her responsibility to prepare her father for burial, to wash him, to dress him, and to sew up his shroud.
She took her stool and sat by the cook fire, rocking with her arms clasped about her knees. The fire had died down since the morning, but toward the end of the day, cook began to feed it so that everyone could have supper. Giselle wished he would just leave the ashes alone. But people had to eat. Life had to go on. It was so unfair.
She had not been there long before Athelhild emerged from the tent. “You need to see this.”
“What?” Giselle asked.
“Something that’s not right.”
“Nothing that’s happened this day has been right.”
Athelhild shook her shoulder. “Come on. You must.”
“Very well.”
Giselle went into the tent. It was shocking to see her father lying naked on the pallet. “What in God’s name must I see?”
Athelhild knelt by the body and pointed to William’s back. “There. See? That little slit.”
The mark where the arrow had struck beneath the shoulderblade was plain, but lower down, where Athelhild pointed, was a small slit.
“What is it?” Giselle asked.
“It looks like a dagger wound.”
“So?”
“So, whoever killed our lord not only shot him with an arrow, but stabbed him in the back as well.”
“So?”
“So it makes no sense. Think about it. It was dark last night. No self respecting robber would shoot someone in the back in the dark. The chances of missing are too great. And why shoot him in the back and then stab him there?”
“I don’t follow.”
“Whoever killed him likely stabbed him first, then pushed the arrow in to make it look like he’d been shot. Doesn’t it seem odd to you that that very arrow is one that could be linked with you-know-who?”
“With Robert Attebrook?”
“Exactly. To divert suspicion. This was not an ordinary robbery.”
“I cannot believe any of this.”
“It is supposition, but it is the only thing that makes sense.”
“But why?”
“I don’t know. But we may find out in time. We must keep our eyes open, and be watchful. Now, you go, I’ll finish here.”
The next morning Roger FitzWalter sent men over to the de Hafton tents to help pack up for the return home. Athelhild tried to send them away with an indignant, “We can take care of ourselves, thank you very much.”
But the FitzWalter men could not be sent off, and when Athelhild appealed to Giselle, she said, “What does it matter? Let them help. We’ll be on the road more quickly.”
“It is none of their business, mistress!” Athelhild protested.
Giselle was in no mood to argue. She waved a hand, and the packing went on so that by an hour after dawn, the packhorses were loaded and the body laid in the rented wagon. The FitzWalter men guided the train over to the FitzWalter encampment, where a similar train was just as ready to depart.
Lady Blanche had a wagon to herself, and she called to Giselle: “Come ride with me, dear! I need the company!”
Athelhild hissed in Giselle’s ear, “What is going on?”
“I could use the company as well.” Giselle had no great appetite for a journey in the back of a wagon, even if it had its own canvass awning to shade passengers from the sun. But the invitation offered the chance of a diversion, and conversation might fill the great void in her heart.
“This isn’t right,” Athelhild said as Giselle climbed into the wagon.
“What isn’t right, dear?” Blanche asked.
“Nothing, my lady,” Athelhild replied.
The road to Hafton and Shelburgh was no worse than any other in England, which is to say, it was one jolting rut and stone after another all the way.
At a stop to conduct necessary business, Giselle emerged from the bushes to the roadside, where some of the men were still urinating in the grass, to see Osgar and Athelhild with their heads together. There was something furtive in the way they conducted themselves, so Giselle went over to find out what was going on.
“What are you up to?” Giselle asked them.
“The FitzWalters mean to accompany us all the way to Hafton,” Athelhild said.
“Nonsense,” Giselle said. “Why would they want to do that?”
“They plan to stay for the burying,” Athelhild spat. “As if they really cared about him.”
“But I thought father was in the process of patching things up.”
“You don’t really believe that.”
Giselle blinked. “It is a friendly gesture on their part. I cannot reject it.”
“Friendly gesture or not, we have to warn Matilda.”
Giselle could see the sense in that. There was no telling what might happen if the FitzWalter people came across her: nothing good, that was certain. “How will we do that?”
“Send Osgar on ahead,” Athelhild said.
“All right. Do that.”
Giselle turned away. Athelhild grasped her by the shoulders. “Come to your senses! Can’t you smell the danger here? We aren’t safe among these people.”
“I don’t know what you mean.” Giselle pushed Athelhild’s hands away. She stumbled back a few steps, then fled to Blanche’s wagon.
Athelhild’s warning weighed on Giselle’s mind for some time after that, but Blanche and her maids were friendly and warm to her and before long she had forgotten about it, glad to be relieved of any worry.
At last the train crossed the ford north of the house, and the old stone tower, square and solid beside the house itself, came into view. They rounded the embankment, and Giselle perceived that FitzWalter meant to enter the yard. She called out, “I would like my father laid in the village church!”
FitzWalter reined up and came back to the women’s wagon. “Not in your chapel?”
“No, my lord,” Giselle said, climbing out of the wagon. “He would want to be buried beside my mother, who is buried in the churchyard with my brothers.”
“Very well,” FitzWalter said, not sounding very interested. “Do what you must.”
“Thank you, my lord,” she replied, although as she turned away she wondered why she’d felt it necessary to have his permission to do anything on her own land.
Giselle followed the cart carrying her father’s body into the village, while the FitzWalter entourage entered the yard.
When the cart stopped, the crowd closed in around it, everyone staring at the shrouded corpse. More than a few had begun weeping, and many reached over the rails to touch the linen covering the body.
Wulfric came to Giselle’s side. “A sad day, mistress.”
She nodded.
