Marked to Die

by Sarah Hawkswood

  He had been told to wait beyond Bromsgrove, this time for the cart heading north, he neither knew nor cared where. Only when he heard the slow turning of the wheels did he put his meal away, and string his bow, calmly, without any apparent excitement or concern. There were two men, taking their pace from the oxen, and they presented no challenge. The first had barely time to exclaim as his companion toppled, and followed with a grunting exhalation. The Archer turned away and was gone before the two thugs employed to take the cart had even taken up the first body. He would meet the thin-faced man who paid him on the road just beyond the eastern end of Alvechurch, at dusk. There was plenty of time, but he always liked to be the one waiting.

  Hugh Bradecote trotted into the enclave at Bordesley, with Catchpoll and Walkelin in his wake, in the middle of the afternoon, a little after None. Brother Porter sent a novice to Abbot William, and directed a lay brother to show Walkelin to the stables. Bordesley, like Alcester, was a new foundation, yet to show the solidity of stone above ground, excepting for the green sandstone of the abbey church, still scaffolded and with its western end showing a wooden face. The White Monks, eschewing grandeur for imposing austerity, were already making money from their flocks and had worked hard upon the marshy Arrow Valley, draining land and diverting the river itself to their needs. There were lay brothers, but every member of the community had had to pull their weight, quite literally, to achieve what they had in so few years.

  Abbot William met the undersheriff and serjeant with as much courtesy as Abbot Robert and with as little thought that he could be of assistance. At Bradecote’s interest in Corbin FitzPayne’s interment he called for Brother Eustace, Corbin’s brother, who had sought permission, which was granted, to prepare the body and shroud it. The monk did not look very much as Bradecote remembered the older FitzPayne, being lanky and with wisps of pale-gold hair about his tonsure.

  ‘Brother Eustace, the lord Bradecote wishes to know about your brother’s death.’

  ‘But, Father, I know noth—’

  ‘We are interested in what you saw when he was brought here, Brother. The position of the wound would help us.’

  Bradecote already had a good idea of that but it was a starting point. The monk’s face paled slightly, but his voice was steady.

  ‘The wound was fatal of itself. He had not been beaten that I could see. The arrow projected from just below the breastbone.’

  ‘You removed the arrow, Brother?’

  ‘Of course.’

  ‘What sort of arrow was it?’

  ‘Oh, not one a man would choose to hunt game, but a long bodkin, a war arrow. It had struck deep, right into the backbone, without even mail to hinder it. I gave thanks that at least my brother did not suffer a long dying. He was a man with faith, and did not fear death, but which of us would want to die slowly?’

  ‘Indeed. You removed the arrow, and then what?’

  ‘I washed and shrouded the body, my lord.’

  ‘He means what did you do with the arrow, Brother.’ Catchpoll tried not to sound peremptory.

  ‘Oh, the arrow! Er, I cannot recall. Laid it aside, I suppose.’

  ‘Might it be where you left it, in the mortuary chapel?’

  ‘Er, yes, unless it has been tidied away since.’

  Catchpoll’s eyes had lit up.

  ‘Well, you take me and show me where, Brother.’

  He took the brother by the elbow, and almost propelled him from the chamber. Abbot William permitted himself a half smile.

  ‘Your serjeant is assiduous in his duties, my lord.’

  ‘He is keen, yes, but that comes from long years in the work.’

  The abbot’s face became serious again.

  ‘Do you think you will catch whoever did this?’

  ‘I do not know, but I know we will make every effort.’ A thought struck Bradecote. ‘Father Abbot, might I also speak with your prior? I believe it was he who took the bad news to the widow, the lady FitzPayne.’

  ‘Of course.’

  A small bell was rung, and a novice sent to fetch the prior, who recounted his visit to Cookhill.

  ‘The poor lady showed her grief in anger, as some do, promising vengeance upon whoever had killed her lord. She was most bloodthirsty.’

  He sounded slightly shocked, but Bradecote had to repress a smile. Best not tell him she sounded equally bloodthirsty days later.

  ‘And her fall?’

  ‘Oh dear, that was terrible. From halfway down the steps she tumbled and was carried unconscious to her chamber. And then she lost the life she was carrying. I did not know, of course, when I told her the bad news, though it had to be faced, whatever her condition. However, I would not have entertained her returning here for the burial, which is what she had planned to do.’

  At this point Catchpoll returned, wreathed in smiles as if he had found a scrip of gold, and with Brother Eustace trailing in his wake.

  ‘We have it! One arrow, my lord, with the same fletchings as the other, of course.’

  There was muted triumph in his voice. It was not a find that would change their ideas, but it was good corroboration, although Catchpoll would have merely described it as ‘another piece of the pie’.

  Bradecote nodded, and turned back to the abbot.

  ‘I asked this question of Abbot Robert at Alcester, but I must ask it also of you, Father Abbot. Are there any in dispute with you at this time?’

  The abbot shook his head.

  ‘None but Herluin, whose pig drowned in the Arrow, and who blamed us because he said the water flowed the faster after our workings.’

  Bradecote smiled and shook his head, then requested lodgings for the three of them for the night in the guest hall.

  A barn owl flitted silently along the track, a pale ghost in the gloaming. Reginald, son of Robert, crossed himself. He would not choose to be out alone in the approaching darkness, but this was the assignation to which his lord had sent him, and he was not a man to disobey. The Archer was more ghost than living thing, not unlike the owl, and as silent a hunter. Reginald had not seen him since the first meeting in the tavern, and were it not for the fact that every commission were fulfilled and the silver taken, he would not now be certain he had a meeting with a real man at all. His horse, sensing his disquiet, began to fidget nervously. The last dwelling of Alvechurch was well behind him when he heard the disembodied voice call for him to halt. The horse jibbed, and then stood still, ears twitching for danger.

  ‘You come with money. Do you come also with new tasks, Master Messenger?’

  Reginald caught the disdain in the voice. This man, this ‘Archer’, thought himself so different, so superior, to a man who brought instructions. The other men, men he commanded, treated him with respect as one senior in their lord’s service. The Archer did not understand, but it did not stop Reginald imagining, with pleasure, the day when the marksman’s services would no longer be needed and he could show him how mistaken he had been.

  ‘I come with both, Archer. There are to be no attacks for a few days. Meet me here three days before St Luke’s and your next task will be given to you and half the payment.’

  ‘Fair enough. Now for the silver. Throw it ahead of you and turn away.’

  Reginald did as instructed. He heard the slight chink of coin as it was picked up from the ground.

  ‘Why this mummery, Archer? I saw you when I hired you in the tavern.’

  ‘You saw a man once, a man who is much as every other man. Your memory will play you false at every turn, and I will blend into the undergrowth, just as I do …’

  The word was left hanging, for Reginald was alone.

  The sheriff’s men left Bordesley on the morrow, heading along the route the salt wagons should have taken to the abbey, back south along the ancient Icknield Street that the Romans had set on its straight course, climbing the King’s hunting grounds of the Lickey Hills before dropping towards Bromsgrove. It was there that they came upon an altercation.

 
A horse trough stood in the street, and before it a free-for-all seemed to be taking place. At its edge, a dark-haired man with a close-cropped beard, swathing his jaw, sat upon an impressive bay horse, apparently watching the proceedings as if it was sport.

  Serjeant Catchpoll muttered imprecations under his breath and set his heels to his horse’s flanks, scattering many of the combatants by the simple expedient of riding among them at speed. Avoiding being ridden down was far more important than a brawl. Two or three resolutely remained trying to addle each other’s brains, and Catchpoll, shaking his head at their foolishness, dismounted and approached. One man, facing away from him, did not notice, but the other let his eyes flicker to the death’s head grin upon the grizzled face of Serjeant Catchpoll, and his opponent took full advantage of the moment, reaching for his knife at his belt. Whatever murderous intent he might have had was lost the moment a sinewy arm bore his own downward, and a booted foot crumpled him by kicking him in the back of the knees. Catchpoll pushed him aside.

  ‘I don’t think so, Toadbreath.’

  The man he would have knifed seemed confused, so caught up in the adrenalin that he took a wayward swing at his rescuer. Catchpoll sidestepped, grabbed the unbalanced pugilist and ‘helped’ him into the trough.

  ‘All finished, Serjeant?’

  ‘Yes, my lord, just a minor falling-out of friends and high spirits, no doubt.’

  Bradecote’s attention turned to the man on horseback.

  ‘Had you no thought to stop this?’

  The man smiled lopsidedly.

  ‘Not really. It was mildly entertaining, and these oafs would not give precedence to my men. You said “Serjeant”. But you are not de Beauchamp so … ah you must be de Crespignac’s replacement.’

  ‘I am Hugh Bradecote, undersheriff of Worcestershire. And you, my lord?’

  ‘Baldwin de Malfleur.’

  Bradecote hoped his face did not betray his reaction. The words of Christina FitzPayne echoed in his head, that the family were evil to the core. What he saw before him did not give any indication that she was wildly wrong. He nodded acknowledgement.

  ‘We have not met before, though I came across your brother.’

  ‘Ah yes,’ de Malfleur’s smile was somewhat fixed. ‘Once “come across”, Arnulf was rarely forgotten. But I am not my brother. In fact, where I feel Arnulf would have rampaged around the county roaring, I am being remarkably … restrained.’

  ‘With what cause?’

  ‘Well, since you are the undersheriff of the shire I will tell you and not waste my efforts in going to de Beauchamp. Yesterday I had a salt wagon stolen and the drivers murdered by a man with a bow, a man whose accuracy would mark him as one skilled beyond normal work at the butts. This, I hear, is the third such attack. I want to know what the sheriff, or,’ he smiled, ‘the sheriff’s subordinate, is doing about it.’

  Catchpoll watched the pair of them, clearly vying with each other, jostling politely with words where common men would wrestle, though the words were in Foreign and he did not understand every one of them.

  ‘We are doing whatever is possible, short of guarding every salt load that leaves Wich. There are simply not enough men to do that.’

  ‘So you are wandering around hoping to find this archer ambling along your path?’ There was insult in the tone.

  ‘I did not say so. We are trying to work out who he is, how he manages to get about so stealthily. Then we have a good chance of catching him.’

  De Malfleur was not fooled.

  ‘Keeping things close to your chest, eh? Well, so would I in your boots. Now, you say there are not enough men to guard the salt. I happen to have a plentiful supply of men, those of my brother’s and those also whom I took to the Holy Land as a virtuous knight. In fact, I had too many and had to turn some off. I shall protect any salt that I bring from Wich to replace my lost wagon, and, if they will but pay me a consideration to fund my men, I will protect any other load, be it abbey or lord’s, that leaves the town. The law is fine as far as it goes, but Bradecote, I am not fettered as you are.’

  ‘You must remain within the law, though, de Malfleur.’

  ‘Of course, my lord Undersheriff. How else would I work?’

  De Malfleur’s eyes mocked. Bradecote gritted his teeth. He would dearly like to wipe the sneer from the weathered face. Without further word, de Malfleur wheeled his horse, and, calling his men as most would call their hounds, he trotted northward, back upon the way he had come.

  Catchpoll hawked and spat into the dirt. Walkelin, who had kept very quiet throughout the interchange, looked from one superior to the other and wondered. Neither serjeant nor undersheriff looked at all happy. There was a pause.

  ‘Where now, my lord?’ asked Catchpoll.

  ‘Well, we cannot indeed wander the shire in hope. Let us get back to Cookhill and look at things again. It is close enough to Wich and there is where I think we must find something to aid us. After all, the thieves know when and where to strike. The information can only come from the town.’

  The trio watered their horses and headed south, not quite managing to feel optimistic. Little was said, although the silence was not unfriendly. The cloud had thickened by the time they passed through Wich, where they bought bread and ale, though Catchpoll was most uncomplimentary about the beverage, suggesting whoever made it had used brine instead of water.

  The afternoon was cold and gloomy, and Bradecote drew his cloak about him as they neared Cookhill. He did not think his reception would be any warmer than the weather, and was again conscious of that feeling of regret. It had been his fault, his clumsiness, and he would have to face her over the evening meal in all her haughty coldness. They trotted into the courtyard and a lad came to take Bradecote’s mount. The steward emerged and greeted them with the information that his lady was not yet returned. He sounded worried, in a paternal way.

  ‘Not yet returned? But why did she go out at all? Surely she should not …’

  The sudden relief upon the old man’s face and the clatter of hooves told him the rising alarm was unnecessary. Bradecote turned, to see lady FitzPayne, accompanied by two men-at-arms, come through the gateway. Then he frowned, for her face was very white and pinched, ghostly in the fading afternoon light. She brought her horse to a halt, and as she began to dismount, a little unsteadily, he was there to lift her down. She would have remonstrated, but her knees buckled as he set her feet to the ground, and his light hold upon her waist tightened.

  ‘My lord, I am perfectly able to …’

  Her voice was thread-like, and Hugh Bradecote had no qualms about asserting his male authority.

  ‘No, you are not, foolish woman. What possessed you to take to the saddle, I want to know?’

  Before she could respond, he swung her into his arms and proceeded to carry her up the stone steps and through the hall to her solar, calling for a tirewoman. Her mind was full of outrage, but her body was just glad to be passive. In truth, for all that she would remonstrate at his high-handed behaviour, she knew she had undertaken too much too early, and for no result. Report had come of a horse that sounded like her lord’s, being shod at the blacksmith’s in Moreton, and she had set off on impulse, keen to be doing something positive, but the smith had shaken his head and told her it was a horse he had shod many times before. He could vouch for its ownership. Demoralised, and feeling distinctly unwell, she had come home. Her eyes were half closed, but she permitted herself a glance at Bradecote’s unsmiling profile. He had a longish nose and a mouth that could look unforgiving, but if he smiled …

  He drew back a curtain and set her upon the box bed in the corner of the chamber, then commanded the steward, who had followed him, to get candles and to light the brazier, for the lady was clearly cold, and sent a girl to fetch hot wine. Christina FitzPayne’s face remained impassive but her eyes watched him.

  ‘By what right do you take complete control of my hall, my lord?’

  Her voice was still weak, but
there was an edge to it nonetheless. His reply held anger, which surprised her.

  ‘By right of still possessing my wits when yours are sadly lacking, lady. What possible cause led you to ride in your condition?’

  ‘I do not have to explain my actions to you, my lord Undersheriff, since they do not break the King’s laws, and as for “my condition”, I—’

  Without warning, and to her own intense annoyance, she choked and burst into tears. Hugh Bradecote stared at her in mute horror. He could do nothing, nothing within the bounds of decency. Part of him wanted to hold her, comfort her, and the other wanted her to pull herself together and cease embarrassing him. The arrival of the tirewoman, clucking like a mother hen and almost driving him from the bedside as though shooing pigeons from the pease field, was actually a relief.

  In the yard, the horses had been taken to the stables, and Walkelin was overseeing them. Serjeant Catchpoll stood, arms folded, leaning against a wall, waiting. Bradecote’s face was stormy.

  ‘I asked one of the men-at-arms, my lord, about what was going on. He said the lady suddenly called for her horse and had them follow her to the smithy at Moreton. She seemed quite agitated, and spoke to the smith for some minutes, but his answers did not please her, for she was silent upon the return journey.’

  ‘To a smithy? But …’

  Catchpoll watched the answer to his superior’s own question hit him.

  ‘Yes, my lord, we had not thought about the lord FitzPayne’s horse. It seems it was quite a distinctive animal. A dark steel-grey with white stockings to its off hind and near fore. It seems the lady FitzPayne has had her men out hunting for information to find out if it has been seen.’

  ‘And not thinking to help us by telling us of it.’

  ‘It seems not, my lord.’