Marked to Die

by Sarah Hawkswood

  ‘But his own salt was stolen, my lord.’ Walkelin kept to his preferred line of thought.

  ‘Not if he “stole” it himself; he still has it.’ This time Catchpoll did one of his thinking faces. ‘He has many men-at-arms to pay and keep occupied. He also has a family reputation to keep up.’

  ‘But he has not shown himself to be like his brother since he inherited, Catchpoll, to be fair.’ Bradecote felt he had to be, however reluctantly.

  ‘Being fair has nothing to do with Baldwin de Malfleur, my lord. You could see what sort of bastard he was in Bromsgrove, and that was a particularly nasty one. He may not have come to the notice of the lord Sheriff as his brother did – and I can tell you Arnulf de Malfleur was nearly taken for capital offences several times – but the younger brother is true to his blood, for sure.’

  ‘You sound like the lady FitzPayne.’

  ‘My lord?’

  ‘The moment she heard Baldwin de Malfleur’s name, she said he must be behind all this. She also said Arnulf sent his brother off to the Holy Land because he taunted him with her and then objected strongly when Baldwin stole a kiss. She says he would harm her out of spite and that is why Corbin FitzPayne died, though that vessel holds no water. The salt thieves could not have known he would be coming along the road at that moment. Not that I can convince her of that.’

  ‘That means,’ muttered Walkelin, almost to himself, ‘that the lord de Lasson’s motive is greed and the lord de Malfleur’s is … simply that he is an evil bastard. Neither thing is against the law, of itself. And,’ he added miserably, ‘there is also the possibility that there is another lord, or man of wealth, with the same motives, but who we do not know about yet.’

  ‘The voice of cheer,’ grumbled Catchpoll, and urged his horse into a canter, ‘and there is the lord of Shelsley to brighten our final miles to Cookhill too. Praise the Lord!’

  Chapter Ten

  Jocelyn of Shelsley had spent a surprisingly pleasant day sowing the seeds of panic among the folk of Wich. It was almost too easy. He watched the effect, and smiled to himself. People gathered in nervous huddles like sheep when they caught the scent of wolf. By the next day he imagined the reeve would be inundated with complaints and also with sightings and hearsay. Let the undersheriff chase after those moonbeams and get nowhere. It would keep him out of the way at Cookhill and make him look a fool. William de Beauchamp might reward success, but he would make Bradecote pay for failure.

  He had paid a child a four∂ing to keep an eye open for the return of the sheriff’s men, and this enabled him to spend a cosy hour with mulled ale to keep out the cold, and when the half-frozen boy came to tell him of their arrival he reckoned it a halfpenny well spent. He left the tavern, drawing the fur around the neck of his cloak tight about his throat. They did not appear delighted to see him, but then, he had no intention that they should. He smiled up at Bradecote when the undersheriff drew up before him, and belched ostentatiously.

  ‘Ah, the industrious undersheriff of the shire and his doughty henchmen. I do hope you have had a good day galloping about.’

  Serjeant Catchpoll ground his teeth, audibly, and Walkelin looked surly, his naturally open and cheery face set. Whatever was being said it was not a compliment. Bradecote looked down his long nose at Jocelyn of Shelsley.

  ‘There was no need to gallop, and our journey was far from wasted, my lord. Indeed, it has made certain things the clearer.’ He did not say how few. ‘Yours seems to have been only as far as the nearest alehouse.’ His look was disdainful.

  Walkelin, catching ‘alehouse’ and the tone, could not quite conceal his snigger, and a flash of anger crossed Jocelyn’s slightly chubby cheeks.

  ‘I have not been idle, my lord, I assure you. I have ascertained that the salt workers are not sure whether these deaths are caused by man or the embodiment of the Devil, and that the packmen are threatening to send word to earl and sheriff over the conduct of the reeve and your noble self.’

  He did not mention that this had sprung from his own suggestion, secreted in an attentive ear, nor that he had a fine game for them based upon a horse he had seen being led out of the stable where he had left his bay for the day. A few choice words in the ears of women, who would not only give credence to his tale but embellish it, might yet get the sheriff’s trio hunting some innocent individual who happened to own a chestnut horse with a white blaze. It would be most enjoyable. The undersheriff gave him a look of intense dislike, informed him that, if he did not wish to ride alone to Cookhill, they were leaving immediately, and swung his horse’s head away without a backward glance.

  Christina FitzPayne told herself she was not eager for the sounds of her visitors’ return, but knew it was a lie. Whilst the absence of the vile Jocelyn had been a boon, she was keen to hear if the visit to Stone had been successful. It mattered to her that what she had found out should assist Hugh Bradecote, and that filled her with guilt, for her duty, which she had so loudly and fiercely proclaimed less than a week before, was to get justice for her dead husband. Gaining justice was, however, not at the forefront of her thoughts. What she wanted was the undersheriff’s approbation. No, that was another lie. She wanted him to give her his smile, and warmth in his eyes. That one so recently bereaved should feel as she did was wrong, and yet … She had been quietly fond of Corbin FitzPayne, conscious of his consideration and care. She had been a good wife to him, but he knew he never inspired passion within her, had never attempted to do so. He had happily been a safe haven for her, and had been content with that. She smiled, a sad smile. She thought perhaps Corbin would not be displeased if she found the things she had never expected to discover, attraction, longing, even that mysterious thing, ‘love’. She gave herself a mental shake. This was foolishness. She was making assumptions based upon what? There had been a few moments, a few words, looks, that she felt had import, moments when she had felt bonded to this tall, dark-haired man, with the furrowing brows and the rare, luminous smile. Yet for every one of those there had been the arguments, misunderstandings, the desire to throw things at him. How could that be a sign of love? And why should he feel as she did? Could it not just be loneliness for a woman’s ‘comfort’?

  She frowned. She knew all about a man’s ‘needs’, and it was an ugly side of them; at least it had been so in the past. But she had kissed this man, admittedly not from any desire, for she had never felt that. It had been merely to distract him, but his response, the mixture of uncertainty, tenderness and the stirrings of desire, which should have repelled her and yet did not, had touched something deep within her, unfathomed until that moment. It had taken her totally by surprise, and left her shaken. She had felt herself not divorcing herself from her body as she had learnt to do, but following its dictates, willingly, excitedly. She had actually wanted the embrace to continue, had dreamt of what it would be like to lie in those arms, not captive, but protected. Her world was upside down, the known had become the unknown, and the feared, the anticipated.

  It was Jocelyn’s voice she heard first, and she shuddered, the warm feeling dispelled by the mere thought of him. She sighed, and rose to play the hostess. He entered the hall, clearly in good spirits, followed by Hugh Bradecote, who looked at the end of his tether. Her heart sank. Had his day been wasted? Then their eyes met and her doubts were set aside. There was a smile in the blue-grey eyes and hovering about his mouth, and an easing of the weary frown. She did not register the words of her husband’s kinsman; they were merely sounds eddying about her.

  ‘Did you find anyone who knew Tostig the Fletcher, my lord?’

  ‘We did.’ He wanted to say more but in the presence of Jocelyn he felt inhibited. ‘Perhaps I might tell you in private, my lady.’

  ‘I am not sure that would be seemly,’ Jocelyn commented, in a voice that blended mock outrage with proprietorial prohibition.

  The look he got from both parties would have frozen the Severn, and he laughed as if to pass it off as a joke.

  ‘Sinc
e the lord Bradecote is seeking the man who murdered my husband, I hardly think it unseemly he should discuss progress with me, my lord. You are but a kinsman, and not close.’

  Christina’s words bit deep, and Bradecote noticed Jocelyn tense.

  ‘I shall go, therefore, and ensure my horse has been taken care of to my satisfaction, my lady,’ announced Jocelyn, trying to keep the tatters of his pride about him, and, with a stiff bow, he left.

  She turned a face filled with triumph to Bradecote. He smiled, but his voice was serious.

  ‘For all his oafishness, my lady, I think you were right to be afra—concerned about your husband’s cousin. The more I see, the less I like, or trust. I would advise you to be cautious and alone with him as little as possible.’

  She tried to look arch, but her trepidation shone through.

  ‘And this from the man who stands boldly alone before me?’

  ‘You have nothing to fear from me, my lady.’

  She dropped her gaze and coloured.

  ‘That I know, my lord Bradecote.’ She looked up, shyly. ‘I … I am safe with you.’ Her face clouded. ‘I am sorry.’

  ‘Sorry that you trust me?’

  ‘Sorry that I seemed not to at first. I was angry, am angry still, at what has befallen, and I have not had cause to “trust” …’ Her voice faded to nothing, and unconsciously he reached out a hand and touched hers. She jumped and half pulled back, but looked apologetic.

  ‘I am sorry,’ he whispered, mortified.

  ‘No, it is I who am sorry, my lord. I am … confused. Please, sit and tell me about Tostig, as we are meant to be discussing that, not my failings.’

  She gestured to the lord’s seat, but he shook his head, requested that she took it, and sat instead upon a bench.

  ‘Your failings?’ He frowned. ‘No, not failings, my lady. I understand it cannot be easy for you.’

  ‘Easy?’ She laughed, but it was bitter. ‘No, never easy, my lord.’

  He wanted to say that he wanted to make things easier for her, but even in his head it sounded trite. Part of him wondered if, with such a past, she would ever be able to lay the spectres of her life and be happy, and then he imagined her cradling Gilbert in her arms, his little baby fingers plucking at her veil, his eyes focussed upon her face. She would be smiling and without care, and would love Gilbert not just because the motherless infant would draw out her maternal feelings, but because he was his son. It was but a figment of his imagination, but it made his throat tighten.

  ‘Tostig. My lord?’ She noted the faraway look in his eyes. ‘We were to speak of Tostig.’

  ‘Yes. Yes, indeed, of Tostig.’ He cleared his throat, his mind making calculations. Aelward’s father would have died before ever Christina came to Rushock. He would rather not bring any mention of Arnulf into the conversation and see the shadow cast upon her again. ‘I think we have a name to our archer, thanks to you.’

  ‘You do?’ She looked childishly pleased.

  ‘Yes. Another man, the village wheelwright, had been a keen archer in his youth and remembered a lad called Aelward, who came to the village when about twelve, to live with his aunt. His parents had died. He was a loner, and a good bowman even before manhood. He went away in the employ of a neighbouring lord, and thence to the Holy Land with him. He has not been seen since in Stone, and might indeed be dead, but the wheelwright recognised the arrow as of Tostig’s style so I, and Serjeant Catchpoll also, think we seek Aelward the Archer.’

  She pondered, her fine, dark brows furrowed.

  ‘You have a name, and yet … does this advance you much, my lord?’

  He smiled ruefully.

  ‘That, my lady is what we have discussed most of the way back from Stone, at least until Wich, when the lord of Shelsley took over all conversation. I have to admit that in a direct way it does not, but the more one knows about the man you hunt, the more likely you are to find him.’

  ‘Do you think the lord he went to is the man behind the thefts?’

  ‘No, for he died in the Holy Land some four years past. But a lordless man with archery skill might be used by others. He would have a reputation if he is as good as his shots have been thus far.’ He suddenly realised that ‘good’ might offend. ‘I meant not “good” but “accurate”.’

  ‘I understood it that way, my lord, never fear.’ She sighed. ‘So it was but a small step forward for so many miles on horseback.’

  ‘Every step forward is important, my lady, even a small one, and especially when we have otherwise been travelling in circles.’

  He passed a hand, wearily, over his face, and she stood and went to the door of the buttery, where she turned.

  ‘I am indeed a poor hostess. You have had a long day’s riding in cold weather, and I have not so much as offered you refreshment.’

  She called a servant to prepare mulled ale. Bradecote dared not say what he felt: that her very presence refreshed him and made him forget cold limbs and tired brain. He remembered returning home after such days to Ela, who would fuss about him like a hen with one chick. That had not been restful – had irritated him, even. She had attended his every physical comfort but never eased his heart and soul. Poor Ela, she had tried so hard, too hard, to be the perfect wife. It occurred to him that Christina would not try to be perfect. She would berate him for not having worn a thicker undershirt, or letting his favourite hound come, muddy pawed and wet, into the solar. But she would be able to listen, and unlike Ela, comprehend, if he told her his problems. He let himself drift into a reverie, imagining her curled in his lap, her head upon his shoulder, talking over some problem, a cup of spiced wine in his hand, the brazier warming the chilled feet he extended to it.

  ‘My lord? Mulled ale?’

  He blinked. Christina stood before him, presenting a cup.

  ‘Er … I am sorry, I think I must have … er …’

  ‘Fallen into a doze? Yes, my lord. It is no matter, except that we are about to be joined by Corbin’s so unwelcome cousin.’

  Jocelyn, whose nose for ale was clearly exceptional, ambled in, smiled in a reptilian way, and said how grateful he was that Christina had remembered her duties. The lady stiffened, and the look she cast Bradecote told him she would love to fling the pitcher of hot ale at the man’s head, but she turned and spoke in as false a tone as her guest, requesting that he take a seat and let her serve him. The smile became a lascivious grin, and her flesh crawled.

  The atmosphere had chilled as if the east wind blew through the hall, and drove the warm tendrils of half sleep from Hugh Bradecote. He sighed, and gave himself up to acting as a buffer for the rest of the evening.

  Jocelyn of Shelsley had no doubt he was a most unwelcome third at dinner. His hostess and the undersheriff were trying so hard not to gaze at each other it was almost droll, as long as his plan to keep Bradecote from de Beauchamp’s favour worked. The atmosphere had a tension as taut as the bowstring of the murderous archer, he thought, and smiled to himself. The previous evening he had been keen to keep them from talking, but this time he attempted to raise personal topics to embarrass them. Mocking the sheriff’s man’s lack of success angered the lady, and discommoded Bradecote, especially when phrased in such a way as could be taken as a veiled derision of his manhood. He also delighted in making fulsome compliments about his hostess, and asking Bradecote to agree with him, since to do so made both blush and to deny them would seem rude and churlish.

  Hugh Bradecote squirmed like a worm on a fish hook. His Adam’s apple bobbed up and down and he appeared acutely uncomfortable. Three times he ran a finger round the neck of his undershirt as if it strangled him.

  ‘Our undersheriff appears to find his garments ill-fitting. Perhaps he lacks thread for his needle, and a dame to thread … it. She could make him comfortable again. Or is the needle no longer sharp enough for pricking?’

  Bradecote’s grasp about his wine cup became rigid. Christina had reddened cheeks and a bosom, which, since he ogled it quite op
enly, Jocelyn could watch rise and fall far more than normal. He let the vulpine smile lengthen. Bradecote was the honourable type who would wait to be invited, but he had no such scruples. He had plans for that bosom, and even if the undersheriff eventually got to wed and bed the pretty widow, well the Church might prevent the wedding part but he had every intention of having bedded her first. Admittedly, Bradecote would not know, for the lady would not tell him in her shame, but he foresaw untold pleasure in revealing subtle hints should they ever meet again.

  In the warmer and more convivial atmosphere of the manor kitchen, Catchpoll put up his aching feet upon a stool, savoured the smells of a good barley stew, and appeared to be asleep. In reality, he was moving all the small pieces of knowledge about in his brain, trying to make connections, connections that must exist, but which eluded him. If he had but one piece more, he was sure things would begin to fall into place.

  Walkelin entered, a bit pink and failing to contain a grin of satisfaction. Half an hour spent in the company of the goat-milking maid in a warm stable had done much to improve his mood. He was far from being a ladies’ man, and was in fact rather shy, but whispering sweet nothings and a little fumbling dalliance with a comely girl who was only too willing to oblige as long as he did not go too far, and had actually gone further than he would have dared, left him with a sense of contentment.

  ‘Serjeant, I’ve been thinking.’

  Catchpoll did not so much as open an eye, but the grin that spread across his face was so lecherous that the dame slicing onions blushed as if he had caught her bending and goosed her.

  ‘Not sure what you’ve been thinking is suitable for company, lad, if you’ve been where I’ll vouch you have.’