The Bastard's Tale (24 page)

‘No. Not considering weirs and suchlike all along the river. It would be caught on one thing or another before going far.“

They both looked upstream. The arch of the bridge was wide enough for the body to have been carried through on the current, rather than caught there, but beyond that, a hundred yards and more, was the abbey’s outer wall. It was arched over the river’s flow, but an iron frame with bars was gridded across the gap.

‘Killed here in the abbey?“ Frevisse asked, as if Bishop Pecock had said aloud what she was thinking— that the body could not have drifted past that.

But he said, “The bars stop just above the water, to keep from trapping branches and suchlike when the river is in spate. A body could have drifted under.”

‘How do you know that?“

‘I like to walk about. I like to take note of things. So he may have been killed outside the abbey and his body has floated in. Either way, he’s likely to be from Bury or nearby. That means soon missed and soon known.“

‘Or he’s come in some lord’s retinue. He’s plainly dressed but well enough to be of someone’s household.“

‘There’s no badge on him but that means little,“ Bishop Pecock agreed. ”Yes, he could well have come to Bury in someone’s retinue. Either way, he’ll still be soon missed.“

Master Orle had broken off his prayers, was looking from one to the other of them, bewildered. “How can you guess all that so quickly?” he asked.

‘Not guess,“ Bishop Pecock said. ”Judge. A drawing of conclusions from what is obvious to what is therefore probable, limited always by what is possible. Not,“ he repeated firmly, ”guessing. Either of us.“

As Bishop Pecock had foretold, the men on the other bank had gone to meet Dame Perpetua, and while she had gone on to disappear among the abbey buildings, they had come running this way, loud with questions as they neared and, upon seeing the body, exclaims. Frevisse drew aside, out of their way and away from the body, willing to leave whatever needed to be said to Bishop Pecock and Master Orle.

Chapter 18

Safe out of St. Saviour’s, Arteys had been back into town well before the closing of the gates at curfew, forcing himself to walk as if headed homeward in no great hurry. The Shrovetide holidaying was picking up, he guessed from the high humour of people still in the streets. He doubted he’d be remembered among them and there were lanterns and torches enough still burning beside householders’ doors and outside of taverns that he found his way back to Whityng Street and the alehouse without trouble, always reminding himself to walk, just walk. Despite he felt naked and blood-covered and desperate like a hunted animal.

He slid gratefully into the narrow blackness of the shadow-filled alley beside the alehouse, groped its black length into the slightly lesser darkness of the rearyard, and climbed the ladder into the loft and hiding. With the door shut between him and the night, he felt his way through more darkness to the foot of the bed and sat down with his cloak and his arms wrapped tightly around himself, not wanting a light, rocking slowly forward and backward, holding in his desperation lest it turn to something worse.

To open grief and pain and howling aloud.

He had killed a man.

His father was going to die and he had killed a man.

And he sat there and rocked until finally Joliffe came, singing softly, slurredly, in the way of a man slightly, pleasantly drunk along the alley but surefooted on the ladder and, once inside and turned from hasping the door tightly closed, with no sign of drunkenness on him at all as he asked while setting a small, lighted lantern on the table and taking a crisp-crusted loaf of bread, a hard cheese, a fat sausage, and a brown pottery bottle from under his cloak, “How did it go?”

While Arteys told him, he divided the food into equal shares, only pausing at slicing the sausage to look up and watch Arteys tell of the man smothering Gloucester and what he’d done to him. The cold-sober lack of judgment in Joliffe’s face goaded Arteys to insist at him, “Joliffe, I
killed
him. That man. He’s dead.”

Joliffe cocked his head slightly to one side. “Would you rather have left him alive, to finish what he was doing?”

‘No!“

‘Was there any other way to stop him?“

‘No. Yes. I could have hit him with something. Knocked him out.“

‘Was there anything there you could have grabbed sufficient to do it with one blow?“

Arteys cast quickly through his memory of the room. “No. Nothing close to hand.”

‘And if you’d fought him bare-handed, supposing he didn’t draw his dagger and do for you right off, there would have been noise and you’d have been caught. Would that have been better? Would you or Gloucester have wanted that instead?“

A little sullenly. “No.”

Joliffe went back to cutting the sausage. “Then I wouldn’t go grieving over having killed a man who was willing to smother a sick man in his bed.”

But when Arteys told how Gloucester was when he left him, Joliffe stopped again, laid down the knife, and said, “Arteys, I’m sorry. That’s hard.”

‘Not for him.“ The bitterness in his voice surprised Arteys before he realized he was bitter not at his father but at his own helplessness.

‘Which is a thing you should remember. That he at least is well out of this for now. Take what comfort you can from it.“

It was a rough comfort at best, but Arteys found he could eat and drink when Joliffe told him to, and afterward he slept, as far over on the bed as he could be, to give Joliffe the most of it, it being his bed.

He awoke in the morning to find Joliffe seated at the table, eating thick-cooked something from a wooden bowl. When Arteys sat up, Joliffe, his mouth full, pointed his spoon at another bowl waiting across from him.

‘Um,“ Arteys answered, needing to gather his wits before he moved. Yellow sunlight was streaming across the floor through the open door and he said, still somewhat stupid with a sleep far heavier than he had expected to have, ”The sun is shining.“

‘The obvious is always best at times like this,“ Joliffe agreed. ”Yes, we’ve a clear day finally. Come and eat while the stuff is still warm.“

Arteys moved from the bed to the table and dragged the waiting bowl toward him, finding it full of barley gruel and a thick drizzle of honey. Around his first mouthful he said, “You’ve been out. What have you heard?”

‘Nothing yet.“ Joliffe scraped the last of his gruel from the bottom of his bowl. ”I only went down to fetch our breakfast up. I’m just off to find out what I can, including whether I’ve more rehearsal with the players. There was talk last night we might do that Lydgate’s damnable Hertford farce—St. Genesius help us—for the king, rather than last night’s play. You’ll stay here until I come back?“

Having no thought of what else he might do, Arteys said, “Yes.”

Joliffe gathered up his cloak. “There’s ale left in the bottle. There’ll be a boy up to empty the slops. I’ll bring food when I come back, so just stay put. No matter what.”

He left, Arteys finished his breakfast, and in a while a boy came and took away the covered slops bucket and the bowls and spoons. He gave Arteys a long look but neither of them spoke, and shortly he brought back the bucket, empty and washed, and after he had gone silently away again, all Arteys had for company were town sounds from the street, children sounds from the rear-yard, the sunlight’s slide across the floor, and the sometime ringing out of the abbey bells. With nothing to do but wait, he was left to think and found his thoughts were not of much use, circling through the same fears and doubts over and over. Fear for his father. Fear for himself. Doubt at what he should do next. Doubt he should trust Joliffe, though it was late now to change his mind on that. Doubt that he should trust anyone, even the bishop of St. Asaph’s or that nun.

But what was he to do instead? Sir Roger and anyone else most likely to help were arrested. He had nowhere to go and no one else to ask for help.

And he had killed a man.

That certainty sat sick inside him. He could justify it, that was not the trouble. It was that, just as he would have wanted to wash himself clean after handling filth, he needed to make expiation of some kind before he would feel clean of that death.

And then—under and through and around everything else—there was the grief. Grief for Gloucester who was going to die or else be imprisoned for life, and grief for himself, because without Gloucester he belonged to no one, had no one who belonged to him, and nowhere to go that was his or he was wanted.

Sitting cross-legged on the floor in the sunlight’s patch, he brought out his father’s rings and sat turning them to catch light, first in the garnet, then in the diamond, but putting none of them on, as if by not wearing them he somehow kept possible that Gloucester might live and take them back, might somehow rise up and throw Suffolk down.

It was later, just after Nones, when Joliffe returned. Hearing him on the ladder, Arteys stood up from the bed edge and was demanding before he was through the doorway, “My father?”

Joliffe straightened and went to the table to set out more bread, more cheese, another sausage, another pottery bottle of ale. “He’s alive but still unsensible.”

‘He’s not dead?“

‘Not dead.“

Arteys sat heavily down again and asked, more of his own despair than of Joliffe, “What am I going to do?”

‘To begin with, eat. Then, if you’ve any sense, disappear. Go abroad and make your fortune. Gloucester isn’t going to come out of this alive, whatever happens. Leave while the leaving is good.“

‘I’m not leaving. If the worst comes, I want at least to see him to his grave. I owe him that.“

Joliffe regarded him steadily, then gave a curt nod, it seemed more to something he told himself than to Arteys, and said, “As you will. But come and eat anyway.”

Hunger made that an easy order to obey, but around a mouthful of bread he asked, “Have there been any more arrests?”

‘None.“

‘What’s being said about the man…“ He dropped his voice, not from caution but because the words were heavy. ”… I killed?“

Joliffe paused from cutting off a piece of sausage, looked straightly across the table at him, and said, “What man?”

‘You know what man.“

Joliffe shook his head. “There’s no talk of any man dead at St. Saviour’s.”

Arteys’ voice scaled up in protest. “But I—”

Joliffe held up a hand and said, seriously enough, “Truly, there’s nothing being said about any murdered man at St. Saviour’s. Not a whisper. Not a word. Nothing.”

‘But…“

‘On the other hand, there are questions being suddenly asked about who besides St. Saviour’s warden has a key to the duke of Gloucester’s chamber. Unhappily for someone’s peace of mind, everyone says there isn’t any other key.“

‘But Master Grene knows I have one. He gave it to me. Other people know it, too. I—“

“No one admits to there being another key. I gather from kitchen talk that neither Master Grene nor anyone else who belongs to St. Saviour’s likes the use being made of their place and are all being as little help as they can with anything demanded of them. Including questions. It seems they’re a very ignorant lot at St. Saviour’s these days. There’s something else, though. A dead man was found in the river inside the abbey walls this morning.”

‘The abbey? But… that’s upriver from St. Saviour’s.“

‘Too true.“

‘So it’s not the man I killed.“

‘Seemingly not. But how many murdered men are there likely to be in a place the size of Bury St. Edmunds in one night? Here’s what he looks like…“

‘You saw him?“

‘I joined the crowd and stared with the best of them while he was still laid out on the riverbank. Listen.“

He described the body and its clothing and Arteys said doubtfully, “That could be him.”

Glumly, Joliffe said, “I was afraid of that,” and began to eat again.

‘But if it’s him, how did he come there?“

‘A good question. Eat. Then we’ll do what we can to find out.“

Chapter 19

Frevisse lifted her head, raised her gaze from the dark red floor tiles on which she knelt, past the small-burning lamp above St. Nicholas’ altar with its beautifully woven, golden-embroidered altar cloth to the window in the wall beyond it. It was a round-topped window, narrow in the thick stone wall, set mostly with blue glass that glowed sapphire when the sun struck through it in the morning but now, in early afternoon, was darkened to black-blue. Somewhat like Man’s hope of salvation, Frevisse thought, with the sun of God’s love ever-shining and always there but Man’s life a narrowness through which he either reached God and his soul’s salvation or… he did not. She had been praying for the dead man’s soul and for whoever had killed him, but she was prayed out for now and signed herself with the cross and stood up slowly, wary of her knees, taking time before trusting their cooperation and turning to leave the chapel. As always during the day, the great church itself had been murmurous and rustling with people coming and going along the nave. Some were loud, some were lesser, but quiet as the quietest might be, there was always their soft footfall, the whisper of their clothing, and from a lifetime of churches Frevisse knew how to shut their sounds away while she prayed and therefore was unknowing she was not alone in the chapel until she turned and found Joliffe and Arteys standing there.