Marked to Die

by Sarah Hawkswood

  ‘Be easy, my lady. However drunk, he will not disturb your rest, I swear it.’

  She did not look at him, but he heard her whispered thanks, and a stuttering intake of breath, as if she would succumb to tears in private.

  In fact, the undersheriff did not have to waken to prevent any assault upon the lady’s privacy, for two reasons. The first was that he barely slept, and that was entirely owing to the second; Jocelyn of Shelsley snored long and loudly in his wine-aided slumber. Bradecote lay wondering, in a detached way, whether the man might even dislodge rafters with his rumbling. At one point he got off his palliasse and went and shook him, hard. This produced a grumbling moan and a brief cessation of noise, but it resumed within minutes. Only shortly before dawn did Bradecote achieve a measure of rest, but he was a light sleeper and was awakened in the pale daylight by the sound of his erstwhile noisy tormentor moving around. He opened one eye. Jocelyn was nowhere near the door to the solar, but was pacing up and down, clearly lost in thought. Bradecote lay still, and wondered at it.

  Serjeant Catchpoll, who had spent an enjoyable evening in the manor kitchen and had woken in a good mood, strode into the hall, evincing all the signs of a man ready for anything that life might throw at him. Bradecote groaned, and rubbed his tired eyes and stubbled chin.

  Catchpoll watched his superior, who looked decidedly rough in comparison to the lord of Shelsley, and approached with the vestige of an obeisance.

  ‘You shouldn’t take so much wine, my lord.’ He whispered in a fatherly way. ‘Makes for a thick head on the morrow.’

  The undersheriff grunted. ‘For your information, Catchpoll, I was most abstemious. It was him,’ he cast the other occupant of the hall a look of loathing, ‘who drank till rambling and then kept me awake all night with his snoring, pox on him. I swear I was awake till nigh upon cock crow.’

  ‘Ah.’ Catchpoll’s lips twitched a fraction, but his face remained otherwise blank, then his eyes narrowed as he surveyed the erstwhile snorer. ‘You would have to say, my lord, that he does not look like a man with an ale-head. In fact, he looks remarkably fresh. Did he say anything of interest last night?’

  ‘Well, it is clear he hopes FitzPayne’s brother may be dead in the East and that he will get the estates. He cannot claim the widow, the Church would forbid it through consanguinity, should he not be married already, but that doesn’t stop him hoping for some less formal relations, judging by his tasteless compliments.’

  ‘Doubt she’d be amenable.’

  ‘Of course she wouldn’t be,’ Bradecote snapped, running his hand through his hair and wishing his brain would clear. ‘But this is not our problem, the law’s problem. We are for Wich, to see if Walter Reeve has news for us. Besides, our presence may steady nerves.’

  ‘Only until the next attack, my lord, and I doubt very much they will cease.’

  ‘Agreed, but there is little else to go upon, as yet. I will have speech with the lady, and then we will be away. Have the horses made ready, and drag Walkelin from the kitchen if you can.’

  ‘You will not break your fast, my lord?’

  ‘I have not the stomach for it as yet, but see if you can find bread, and perhaps cheese, that I can take with me.’

  He nodded dismissal and, as Catchpoll departed, turned to find Jocelyn making his wishes known to the steward, who looked most uncomfortable.

  ‘I am sorry, my lord, but I am my lady’s man. I takes my instruction from her.’

  Bradecote, in passing, murmured, ‘If you have sense, my lord, you will not treat what is not yet yours as your own,’ and headed for the yard, to force himself to full wakefulness with a pail of icy water from the well. It was not pleasant, but it certainly worked, and as he shook the water from his ears and eyes, he saw Jocelyn traverse the yard to the kitchen. He went back up into the hall, which was empty, and on to the solar. Out of politeness, he knocked before entering.

  Christina FitzPayne sat with steepled fingers, her expression thoughtful, though it lightened a little with the undersheriff’s entrance.

  ‘I hope you slept well, my lady.’

  ‘If my sleep was disturbed, my lord, at least it was not by him.’ She jerked her head in indication of the unwelcome guest in her hall. ‘And for that I thank you, truly.’

  ‘We must be in Wich today, but you should not have cause to worry about him, other than he is already trying to run your manor.’ He raised a hand as she started to get up. ‘Oh no, do not disturb yourself. I think it has been made clear by your retainers that you are mistress here and it is your word they obey. You are well served.’

  ‘I am, but the man is an insufferable, grasping fool.’

  She spat the words derisively.

  ‘Less a fool than appearances may indicate, my lady, so keep your wits about you. But I am here to ask that if you intend to use those arrows you stole, that you will do me the favour of letting me know what results from your questions.’

  She reddened at the term ‘stole’, as the memory of that incident flooded back, but nodded.

  ‘Be sure I will send round every fletcher in the area, my lord, though of course it may be that the man fletches his own arrows.’

  ‘At least we will have tried, and if you are well enough to go in person you will be spared Jocelyn of Shelsley.’

  She grimaced.

  ‘He is so thick-skinned he would probably think I wanted him with me, as “protection”. Ugh, horrible. If you find him dead, my lord, you will not need to look for who did the deed, but I will claim it as self-defence, for my sanity if not my flesh.’

  ‘And no rushing about madly, mind.’

  ‘You are a physician also, my lord?’

  She spoke lightly, without venom.

  ‘No, lady, but I am, I hope, a man of sense. Take a care to yourself, and I do not command but entreat.’

  She smiled, and curtseyed, upon which, and for once in amity, they parted.

  Chapter Eight

  Waltheof the Fletcher sat in the best light outside his cottage, a neat pile of ash shafts at this elbow. He worked without rush, but with the ease of years in the craft. He looked up at the sound of hoof beats, and saw a gentleman astride a good bay horse, accompanied by a lady, and two men upon less favoured beasts.

  ‘You there, fletcher! I would have speech with you.’

  The man sounded imperious. The lady winced. Poor dame, he thought, wed to such a man, but then memory stirred and he recognised her. Ignoring the loud man, he stood and addressed her.

  ‘My lady, it’s sorry I am at your loss. The lord of Cookhill was a good man, God rest him, and will be sorely missed.’

  ‘Thank you, Master Fletcher,’ she was especially polite to highlight her disapproval of Jocelyn’s manner. ‘It was a great blow, and the sheriff’s men are trying to find out who did the evil deed. I have here the arrow that killed my lord.’ She withdrew the arrow, wrapped in cloth, from a quiver, which she had slung upon her saddle. ‘I wondered if you recognised the fletching?’

  Leaning forward, she placed it, carefully, in his outstretched hand. He bowed, and then studied the arrow as if it were some precious relic, turning it one way then the other.

  ‘I did not make it, that is for certain, my lady, but it is well crafted. The binding to the flights is distinctive, I would say. Here, Father, can you make ought of this?’

  He turned and placed the arrow in the hands of a gnarled old man whose hands shook perceptibly and who had to peer within inches to see the flights.

  ‘What use can he be?’ murmured Jocelyn, derisively. ‘The old man is best part blind, and addled of wit, no doubt.’

  Waltheof threw him an affronted look.

  ‘My father learnt fletching from his own father, and first made arrows before even those that flew into the enemy at Tinchebrai, my lord. If his sight stops him working, his mind is as sharp as a bodkin head, even now.’

  Christina’s eyes were upon the old man. He closed one eye, looked down the alignment of the
flights upon the shaft, pressed feather between finger and thumb caressingly, and studied the binding.

  ‘There was a fletcher to the north of the shire made arrows just like this, but he has been dead, ooh, more ’n fifteen year, by my reck’ning.’

  ‘The arrow is old?’

  ‘No, no, my lady,’ the old man chuckled, ‘but I would not be surprised to hear that whoever made this arrow watched Tostig, and learnt from him.’

  ‘How can you be so sure?’ Jocelyn’s disbelief was patent. ‘You might know your own arrows, I will grant you that, but to know those from so long past …’ He snorted, and pulled a face, which the old man did not see, though his son growled at him, lord or no lord.

  Christina held up her hand to silence her unwanted companion, but the old man just laughed, a laugh like dry twigs cracking.

  ‘A fletcher is not just some labourer, my lord, to follow the plough. He is a craftsman. We know the arrows of men who fletch in the shire, course we do. We repair damaged flights, for who would waste a good hunting arrow for the sake of one damaged feather, and so we learn, and we remember. Each fletcher is an individual. No, I would be pretty certain the arrow was made by a man from near Stone or perhaps over the Shropshire border.’

  ‘We hunt a fletcher?’ Jocelyn was sceptical.

  ‘Hunt, my lord? If fletching is his trade I doubt he is the killer, especially since that has a bodkin head. If it was a blunt and you were looking for a man taking partridge, now … mind, there’s archers, the finest archers, who likes to fletch their own. I would guess that is the sort of man you seek.’ The old man was respectful in tone but refuted the idea.

  ‘Thank you, I am indebted, Master Fletcher, and I am sure the lord Undersheriff will be also.’ Christina smiled, although the old man could not see it. The son took the arrow, wrapped it and returned it. As she took it from him, she dropped coin in his hand.

  ‘No, no, my lady, there is no need …’ Waltheof would have returned the money to her, but she closed his fingers over it.

  ‘Ah, but there is. We have kept you from your work, and you may have something important enough to find justice for my lord. There is no price upon that to me, Waltheof Fletcher.’

  They left the fletcher and his father to their business, though as they rode away Jocelyn upbraided Christina for foolish generosity.

  ‘What need had you to pay for the information? They must have made it all up, seeing you as soft-hearted and simple enough to believe any tale. It is not worth embarrassing yourself with the undersheriff by telling him this weaving of fiction.’

  ‘You think it false, my lord?’

  ‘Of course. You were taken for a fool, my dear.’

  She grimaced at the affectionate epithet. This man made her flesh crawl, as it had crawled in the past. She knew men like Jocelyn far too well.

  ‘So why did you accompany me today, my lord, upon this pointless enterprise?’

  ‘Because you were so set upon it, and it might take your mind from …’

  ‘Baldwin de Malfleur?’

  ‘Well, yes. Distraction is best, to let your little mind settle.’

  He smiled as he might at a child, but the look in his eyes was not paternal. She was angry, she was disgusted, and deep down not a little afraid. Her hands tensed, and her horse jibbed and sidled at the pressure on the bit. ‘Thank you for your kind concern my lord, and your oh-so-generous estimation of my character. I am “simple”, I am “soft-hearted” and have a “little mind”, have I? I wonder that I have the strength to organise the provision of food in my hall.’

  Her eyes flashed, and she set her heels to her horse’s flanks and was away, her veil streaming behind her, leaving the men to follow in her wake.

  The sheriff’s men took the now familiar road into Wich without any great enthusiasm, and in no expectation of receiving any information of note. However, Walter Reeve proudly divulged that he had had Widow Herdman knocking at his door and reporting a strange man in her yard the night before, and the loss of two ducks. He made this sound as if their hunt was thereby at an end. The undersheriff and serjeant did not look as impressed as he had hoped.

  ‘You said as I should pass on any information, my lord. Surely this—’

  ‘Yes, I did, Master Reeve, but is it likely an archer who can drop a man at will would stoop to stealing ducks when he can keep concealed and hunt his meat in the forests?’ Bradecote did not sound cheering.

  ‘Well, it is all that is new for you, my lord.’

  ‘And I thank you for it. Catchpoll, go and find out if this duck thief might be more than just … a thief of ducks.’

  Catchpoll took directions to find Widow Herdman, and departed with an even greater degree of scepticism than his superior, and wondered why Walkelin had not been set upon the task. When he confronted her he scratched his chin. The old dame was vociferous in her claims. Most likely it was a common theft, but it had to be investigated since she claimed the thief was the ‘Ghost Archer’ and if they ignored her, who else would come forward with information?

  ‘I knows what I knows and saw what I saw, and my ducks was stole by that “Ghosty Archer” everyone is talking about. My ducks was good ’uns, being fattened for Christmas. The likes of him would not want thin scraggy ducks, like her up the street has.’

  The serjeant groaned inwardly. This was going to be a waste of time.

  ‘So what happened, mistress?’

  ‘I am trying to tell you. I came back from the house of Alys Plint, who is a-dying slow, poor woman, just after dark. I came in and went to strike a light when I heard the ducks quacking, all flippy-flappy and fearful, and my first thought was a fox had got among ’em. Well, I got me broom, and opened the door into the yard out back, and there he was, large as life, climbing over the wall with my two best ducks.’

  ‘What did he look like?’

  ‘It was dark.’

  ‘Then how do you know he was the man we seek?’

  ‘Well,’ she paused, ‘because he had good strong thighs.’

  Serjeant Catchpoll was totally bemused, and could not resist asking why this indicated the master archer. The dame gave him a look of withering scorn.

  ‘Why, because an archer has mighty strong muscles. I heard Martin Turner saying so, and he was a good shot at the butts in his youth.’

  ‘Mistress, an archer has strong muscles in his arms and shoulders and chest.’

  ‘No reason he can’t have ’em in his thighs too, though. Besides, he admitted it.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘I called after him, cried thief and scoundrel, then I realised who he must be and shouted “Are you the Ghosty Archer?” and he waved as he disappeared. What more proof could you want?’

  Catchpoll muttered under his breath about old crones with the wits of village idiots. He sighed, and obeyed his ‘serjeant’s hunch’.

  ‘The woman with the “scraggy ducks” up the street, does she have a husband, or a son, or sort of lad who is swift?’

  ‘Aye, my nephew, Baldric.’

  ‘Your what? Are you saying this woman you call “her up the street” is your sister?’

  ‘By marriage. My brother, long dead he is, and probably from her cookin’, was fool enough to marry a Tillman wench, and them all idle cold-hearths.’

  ‘Right. Whereabouts up the street?’

  She told him.

  ‘Now you stay here, and I will do some investigating and see what I can turn up. Thank you, mistress.’

  The serjeant rapped upon a door up the street two minutes later. The woman who opened the door had a haggard look, and wisps of hair trailed from under her coif. She wiped her hands on her skirts, and asked his business in a wary way. Catchpoll had met her sort many a time, and it was a simple matter to overawe her with his importance and gain access to her home. It was dark and, he had to admit, very uncared for and dirty. He asked to see her son, but she said he was out back feeding the ducks.

  ‘Well, let us go and see him there, shall we?
’

  Catchpoll sounded very reasonable. The woman looked suspicious, but did not try to prevent him. In the yard was a well-set-up youth, sat upon a stump of elm, stroking a very decently sized duck. The lad looked at Catchpoll, and the serjeant’s heart sank. He had seen more wit in a sheep.

  ‘You Baldric, lad?’

  The youth nodded, and kept nodding as if stopping was a problem.

  ‘Your aunt needs her ducks back, you know that, don’t you?’

  The youth looked very miserable, hugged the duck tightly and shook his head.

  ‘You cannot take her ducks, son. Your mother should tell you that.’

  ‘She has plenty,’ the woman grumbled.

  ‘Mistress, the lad is not to blame, but you, you have your wits. If you don’t tell him he cannot take things he’ll end in the noose, can’t you see?’

  She blenched.

  ‘But he’s not all there.’

  ‘Aye, but there are those who want their vengeance more than true justice. Now you stay here, and let me take young Baldric to return the ducks where they belong. And since he cannot be trusted to tell right from wrong it is up to you as his mother, understand?’

  She nodded dumbly.

  ‘Come along, Baldric, those ducks are sad, missing their friends.’ He held out a hand. ‘Bring them home with me to your aunt.’

  The lad got up. He did indeed have good strong thighs. Pity it was his head was so weak.