Marked to Die

by Sarah Hawkswood

  ‘The scabbard?’

  ‘Nothing was mentioned, which you would expect if it was very ornate, but then some men take things as said and asking about the sword, well, they might just think of the blade. I can ask again.’

  ‘No, I will have the lady tell me.’ Bradecote pondered, talking more to himself than his serjeant. ‘I wonder if she would actually lie to my face?’

  Christina FitzPayne, her ear to the crack in the door, clenched a fist.

  The girl who came to the solar shortly afterwards gave her nothing to cheer her. Using the goat milker as bait to distract Walkelin, to his pleasure, and with the serjeant with the lord in the hall, she had gone through their meagre saddlebags. Neither had the arrow, or arrows.

  ‘I am sorry, my lady. They must be with the lord Undersheriff.’

  ‘Then if you see his bags left alone, you look there, at the first chance. He may leave them here if he is returning this evening, or for some minor matter in the manor. It is important. Now, away with you and keep alert.’

  Bobbing a curtsey, the girl left, excited at the thought of her secret operation. It was unfortunate that she saw both Bradecote and Catchpoll in the yard, only to be then called away by nature. When she returned a couple of minutes later she saw Catchpoll with Walkelin, and went to the hall, which she found empty. Taking her chance, she rifled through the undersheriff’s meagre baggage, and nearly whooped with success as her fingers closed upon a flight. What she did not know was that Bradecote was closeted with her mistress.

  ‘So, my lady FitzPayne, now you are recovered, will you describe your husband’s horse, and then both sword’ – Bradecote paused – ‘and scabbard to me?’

  He sounded cold and formal. There was a gulf between them and it should matter to neither, but it did. She met his gaze but then looked away. The eyes accused her of duplicity, and she knew herself to be guilty.

  ‘My lord’s horse was grey.’

  ‘Just “grey”? I said “describe”. That is not a description, lady.’

  She looked at him then, and for a second he thought he read apology in the blue-grey eyes.

  ‘He was the grey of dulled mail, a dark grey, with a star upon his forehead, and two white stockings.’

  ‘Thank you. And the sword?’

  ‘It was a good sword but not remarkable to look upon. My lord said a sword was not an item of jewellery to flaunt for show. And he was right. It is a thing with which to kill, not to impress.’

  ‘Indeed. So the sword would not have anything to mark it. What of the scabbard?’

  ‘Unadorned, but there was an old “wound” to it, a slicing of the leather near the hanging, like a scar in the hide. That would be recognisable as very likely his, although another might just have such a mark.’

  She had told him true. It rested more easily with her and since he probably knew about the horse already there was no advantage to a lie. As for the scabbard, well, she doubted staring at the sword of every man who wore one would discover it. Her hopes lay with the arrow and seeking the advice of the local fletchers.

  The door opened. The maid entered, keen to impart her success. Bradecote had his back to the door but was sure to turn, and the girl had the fruits of her search in her hand. Christina panicked, and did the only thing she could think of to distract him; she suddenly threw her arms around his neck.

  ‘I am sorry I was less than truthful to you.’

  Her mouth touched his. It was a ploy, but as his arm tightened instinctively about her, it ceased to be so. She trembled, her mind flooded by conflicting thoughts. She had never offered herself in such a way, had always tolerated what she could not avoid as her duty, but this had an exhilaration to it, and for all its falsehood it had more honesty than any kiss she had ever experienced. It was a brazen, shameless thing, but she was not the passive ‘victim’, and it felt good.

  Hugh Bradecote did not think at all for a moment. He was taken completely by surprise, and his response was totally natural. She was beautiful; she stirred his desire, desire which had had no outlet for so long. As Ela’s pregnancy had progressed, relations had ceased, with her being nervous and he unwilling to upset her in her condition. Then she was no longer there, and he had not thought of a woman in months, until he had seen Corbin FitzPayne’s widow. She was pressed to him, warm and soft and feminine. It was hardly surprising that all the repressed longing surfaced.

  Then thought, cold and logical, filtered through to his brain. Had he considered her behaviour true he would have been shocked at its forwardness, but somehow he knew it was not. He swung her round, hearing the door close, but though he knew he should go immediately to see who had tried to enter, her fingers were at the nape of his neck, and she was so yielding it was impossible not to linger for a few precious seconds. He pulled away, reluctantly, and strode to the door, leaving her standing in the middle of the floor, breathing fast and with a look of surprise as great as his upon her face.

  The hall was empty. Bradecote tried to muster his thoughts. He did not know for whom he was searching, but she had clearly had a reason for him not to turn to the door. Out of the corner of his eye he saw his bags, not quite as he left them. His mouth drew into a hard, thin line. He knew before he checked, what must have happened. He felt angry, cheated.

  She was standing just as he had left her when he flung the door fully open, so hard the hinges rattled. His face was thunderous as he approached her.

  ‘Very cunning, my lady, but I cannot see what stealing evidence will avail you. Or were you just lustful?’

  His words cut. Her eyes widened.

  ‘I wanted to see who fletched the arrows. I … but I didn’t do this because … how could you think …? For a moment I thought you better than …’

  The words were disjointed, as angry as his. They stared at each other, fuelled by their mutual inner turmoil. She saw the muscle work in his cheek, the steel of his eyes, and in her confusion she reacted as she was used to do: she flung up an arm, expecting to be hit. He froze, then swallowed hard, revulsion sweeping over him. His eyes narrowed in disbelieving horror. His voice, when he spoke, was no more than a hoarse whisper.

  ‘You thought me capable of striking a woman?’ He swung on his heel, and at the door flung his parting words. ‘You do not know me at all, my lady.’

  She stared at the emptiness after he had gone, and her voice was choked as she whispered to herself, ‘No, I do not. But I wish to heaven that I did.’

  Chapter Six

  Walkelin saw the undersheriff descending the steps, and cast his serjeant a warning look. Catchpoll had his back to the hall and was laughing with the steward in a ‘we are much the same’ conviviality that worked wonders for getting information. Bradecote was in no mood to be convivial in any shape or form.

  ‘When you have quite finished your little joke, Serjeant, we are for Wich. Get a move on.’

  He did not even stop, but continued straight on to the stables in the manner of one who did not care whether he was followed or not, his brows still drawn in an angry frown and his jaw working silently.

  The journey to Wich was accomplished in near silence. Walkelin did not think asking Serjeant Catchpoll why the lord Bradecote was in such a temper, even in a whisper, was a good idea. The undersheriff was not, in general, an ill-humoured man, from what he had seen of him. This morning, however, he was in as foul a mood as Walkelin had seen even the lord de Beauchamp with toothache. Perhaps, thought Walkelin, charitably, and staring at his back, he did have toothache.

  Catchpoll was not so charitable, but had a far better idea why his superior was snappish. Well, she was a pretty piece, and to a man deprived of a woman for a long time … He judged, correctly, that Hugh Bradecote was not a man to merely use women casually. Her antipathy was pretty obvious, and not, as he saw it, based upon grief for a beloved husband. From all that had been said, she had been a good and caring wife to Corbin FitzPayne, but not doting in her affections. Having said which, he was the lord Sheriff’s ser
jeant, and did not enjoy being treated like some idle man-at-arms.

  Wich was, on the surface, about its normal business. The salt houses were busy, the brine still being brought up from the springs and stored in the ‘salt ships’, the hollowed-out tree trunks that kept the brine for the next boiling. The workers toiled as they always toiled, but there were worried faces turned to the sheriff’s men by those in the streets. A pall hung over Wich, and it was not the smell of sulphur, urine and woodsmoke that gave it odour, but death.

  ‘You know, I think that the townsfolk are getting more worried very quickly. They were not so scared, even yesterday. I wonder why?’

  ‘Someone has been stirring the fires, and not under the salt pans.’ Catchpoll hawked, and spat into the mud.

  Walkelin frowned and then contorted his features, as Catchpoll gazed at him in apparent consternation.

  ‘You in pain, young Walkelin?’

  ‘No, Serjeant.’

  ‘Then watch how you wriggles your face. It ain’t becoming in a sheriff’s man.’

  Walkelin blinked and looked at Bradecote, who in normal circumstances would have smiled, but on this occasion showed no emotion. The serjeant’s apprentice closed his mouth and kept his own counsel.

  They saw Walter Reeve in discussion with a tired-looking individual, who effaced himself quickly as the sheriff’s officers came towards them.

  ‘Master Reeve, good day to you.’

  ‘And to you, my lord.’

  ‘The town seems … nervous this morning.’

  ‘None so surprising, my lord, in the circumstances.’

  ‘Yet it did not seem quite so disturbed yesterday as we passed through.’

  ‘Ah, well, when you think upon how likely more attacks must be, my lord, it makes for nerves, and if Worcester Abbey and grand lords are going to protect their salt, what chance for those whose masters cannot afford protection? ’Tis they as will be the target for the Ghost Archer.’

  ‘The what? Since when has this man attained supernatural status?’

  ‘My lord?’

  ‘Who started the idea he was a ghost?’

  ‘I couldn’t say, my lord. But word spreads.’

  ‘Like muck on the fields,’ murmured Catchpoll, sneering. ‘And it grows the weeds as well as grain.’

  The reeve scowled, not sure of his meaning, and not pleased by the analogy. He turned back to the undersheriff.

  ‘You have questions for me, my lord?’

  ‘Yes, Master Reeve. Does salt leave the town every day?’

  ‘Pretty much, my lord.’ The reeve could not keep the pride from his voice. ‘Far more productive we are than the men of Cheshire.’

  ‘And on all routes?’

  ‘Ah, no, not necessarily, though sometimes that is what occurs.’

  ‘Are the carters and packmen employed by the various manors and religious houses as needed, or are they attached to particular salt houses?’ Walkelin’s question was posed confidently, but he cast his superiors an apologetic look for not requesting permission to speak.

  ‘It varies. Some lords send in to find out when their salt is ready and send a cart, like my lord de Malfleur, and likewise some of the abbeys who take regular deliveries and sell what is spare. They may retain men, but most hire the men of Wich.’

  ‘So do you think these attacks were simply made by men who waited in hope that a cart might come along?’ Bradecote pressed home the follow-up. The reeve thought hard, as did Walkelin, who opened his mouth to speak but only emitted a sharp yelp as Serjeant Catchpoll trod on his foot.

  ‘Mayhap they did, my lord.’ He sounded keen to give the answer that the sheriff’s men wanted. Seeing their expression, he added, ‘Or mayhap they didn’t and were a-lying in wait.’

  ‘Which means?’ Bradecote encouraged.

  ‘They didn’t mind waiting, my lord?’

  Walkelin suppressed a snigger with a thin disguise of coughing. Bradecote sighed.

  ‘No, Master Reeve. It means somebody told them when the pack trains and carts were leaving.’

  ‘But, my lord, nobody here would do that.’ The reeve looked horrified. ‘That would be selling your friends and neighbours to their deaths.’

  ‘Then give me an alternative suggestion.’

  ‘Er, we are being watched, my lord, by dark forces.’

  The reeve crossed himself, and looked about him nervously. Catchpoll rolled his eyes in despair. Once one person introduced the idea of ghosts, it became a form of madness and good sense, if it was ever possessed, went out the window. Everyone saw death as they went through their lives, and Catchpoll’s work meant that he saw a lot more than average folk, but he had never felt the corpse was going to sit up and tell him what exactly happened. Some places, admittedly, had a feel that made your hackles rise, mostly the Old Places, where man had lived before even the Romans came, where the elves, so his grandsire had told him, were wont to inhabit. The aelfshot, however, suffered pains; they did not bleed in the dirt. The dead were in God’s hands, and there was an end to it. The evil he had seen was all perpetrated by living, breathing folk, and it was among them that he would look for culprits.

  Bradecote could see the reeve was going to be of limited value if he reduced everything to superstition. His voice was firm.

  ‘Let us be clear, Master Reeve, the men who took the salt and killed those escorting it used real arrows, and were real men. They are here, or come here, and they find out when and where loads are heading out. Has anyone new been seen only in the last few weeks? Ask around and report anything out of the ordinary to me, to us.’

  ‘The horse, my lord,’ murmured Catchpoll, without any perceptible moving of his lips.

  ‘And I wish it to be made known we are looking for a dark-grey horse, dulled-steel grey, with two white stockings …’ Bradecote looked to Catchpoll.

  ‘Those being on the off hind and near fore.’

  ‘The animal belonged to the lord Corbin FitzPayne. If any have seen it, or perhaps even bought it in innocence, we must be told. You are the reeve, so it is your duty to see this is spread among the populace.’

  ‘Yes, my lord, I will do so, of course.’

  The reeve was eager to show that no ill report should make its way to the Earl Waleran, and he did not think the undersheriff was impressed, thus far, with his actions. He would have said more, but hearing his name shouted, he turned. A thin-faced man on a showy chestnut that looked underfed, overworked, or both, was walking towards them. He ignored everyone but the reeve.

  ‘Well, wormling, is he caught yet?’

  The reeve winced.

  ‘No, my lord, but here is the lord Undersheriff who is looking into matters. He is best placed to tell you all that goes on.’

  The note of relief, as he palmed responsibility upon someone else, was evident. The horseman looked at Bradecote.

  ‘You are not Fulk de Crespignac.’

  ‘No, I am not.’ The man’s tone irritated him, and Bradecote’s reply was not designed to soothe.

  The man frowned.

  ‘Then who are you?’

  ‘I am Hugh Bradecote, now the Undersheriff of Worcestershire.’

  Catchpoll, comprehending, coughed, and provided elucidation.

  ‘De Crespignac died of the flux this summer, my lord. I am surprised you have not heard.’

  Bradecote looked at Catchpoll, his eyes questioning. The serjeant clearly knew who this man was.

  ‘Well, I know now.’ He looked the new undersheriff up and down, assessing the man before him. He sniffed. ‘I hope you know your business, Bradecote, for de Crespignac had experience in his favour.’

  Bradecote bit back a retort. As a morning, it had not been good, and he had no time for this lord on his badly kept beast, whoever he was.

  ‘Salt is both valuable and vital. I do not expect my salt to be subject to attack; in fact, I forbid it,’ the man continued. He was sounding more imperious by the minute, but his voice was getting higher in register at the sa
me time. Bradecote gave in and laughed, though there was not a trace of humour in it.

  ‘Your prohibition is interesting, but unless you are in direct communication with the thieves, or have access to a Higher Authority, it is meaningless.’

  ‘You cannot speak to me in such a way.’

  ‘I just did.’

  Bradecote was making no pretence at politeness. The reeve looked scared. Walkelin was curious as to what would happen next. Catchpoll intervened, though he would clearly have liked to watch it continue.

  ‘My lord, this is the lord Rannulf de Lasson, of Collington and Wolferlow in the shire of Hereford.’

  Bradecote could not contain his look of disbelief. Everyone knew Rannulf de Lasson was one of the wealthiest barons in the Marches, thanks to the lands on the Welsh borders brought to the family through his mother. In his mind, such a man should be dressed, if not in finery, then, well, not in garb that looked as if it had once been good but had long since become faded and lacklustre. And as for the horse …

  ‘You have come in person to check upon your salt house and its well-being, my lord? That is very … caring of you.’

  Catchpoll gave his superior a look of admiration mixed with belief that he had taken leave of his senses. De Lasson might look a mean longshanks, but he had power, and the ear of Miles of Gloucester, Sheriff of Herefordshire and a strong supporter of the Empress Maud. If de Lasson moaned to his sheriff and Miles of Gloucester complained to William de Beauchamp, Bradecote could find himself languishing in his lord’s severe displeasure.

  The thought had occurred to Bradecote, but in his current mood he could not care less. De Lasson gave him a look of loathing, tinged with perplexity. He was not used to anyone treating him with less than fawning deference.

  ‘I am come to make sure what is mine remains mine, and that those in my service work as they should. Any excuse to slack and they will. If they think no salt will be sent from here for a while, they will be idle. My salt is plentiful enough for me to sell the excess to the Welsh in Buellt at a tidy profit. The money buys more sheep, the sheep mean a bigger wool clip, and the wool sells at an even better profit.’