‘Serjeant!’ Walkelin turned beetroot. ‘I never …’
Catchpoll opened one eye, slowly.
‘Been furtherin’ your edificatin’, has she? Country girls are a bit more forward, or so I found at your age.’ He winked at the onion slicer, who looked affronted but then giggled, rather girlishly. Walkelin did not know where to look, so studied the floor.
‘Come on, then, out with it.’
‘What!’ Walkelin’s mind was still in the stable, and he blushed fierily.
‘Your thought, woolbrain. What thought was it brought you to disturb my deep study of the evidence?’
‘I thought you were in deep study of the back of your eyelids, actually, Serjeant.’
Walkelin grinned and ducked as, with lightning speed, Catchpoll reached for an onion and lobbed it at his head. The onion slicer gave them a look that suggested men never grew up.
‘Grab a stool and tell me proper, young Walkelin.’
Walkelin did as ordered, and drew a deep breath.
‘Well, if the Archer is working for a lord, I don’t see this lord wandering the countryside to meet with him. He could go to the lord’s manor, but if he should be caught, well, the lord would be pointed out straightaway.’
‘True, though he might think his word would count for far more than a mere archer, and he could find oath swearers easily enough to “prove” him innocent. But go on.’
‘So if the Archer does not go to the lord, and the lord is too grand to go to the Archer, then there must be …’
‘A go-between, yes. I had worked that one out also, Walkelin.’
‘Oh.’ Walkelin’s face fell. ‘I just thought …’
‘You thought you might be first with it. Well, it was a sound idea, but just remember, lad, you have to get up mighty early to be before Serjeant Catchpoll. It deserves a cup of ale, though. Mistress, would you be so kind as to provide my serjeanting apprentice with a drop of your home brew.’
With which the conversation moved on to food and drink, but Serjeant Catchpoll’s brain still worked upon the knotty problem.
Chapter Eleven
It was a subject that exercised the minds of the sheriff’s men next morning as they rode to Wich. Bradecote was glad to have something to drag his mind, however reluctantly, from the lady who had come out, well wrapped against the wind, to wish them a successful day. It was the flimsiest of reasons, and Walkelin stared quite openly, wondering at her surprising change of attitude. Catchpoll, wise in the ways of women, at least in comparison with the inexperienced Walkelin, ostentatiously adjusted his stirrups, and showed no obvious interest as the lady FitzPayne stood looking up at the undersheriff, so close she was almost touching his knee. It might have been the bending down to catch her words that made Hugh Bradecote flustered of cheek, but Catchpoll would swear there was another cause.
The Go-Between was an interesting advance.
‘We therefore have someone else who could provide the key to the whole investigation, and since, logically, he must have either a contact in Wich, or be there to gather information secretly, we have a comparatively small area over which we need keep a lookout. Perhaps we should have considered this before,’ remarked Bradecote.
‘Perhaps, my lord, but identifying the archer made it much more definite. Before, well, we was just casting about like hounds without a scent to follow.’
‘And now we have Aelward the Archer, a man who tells him where to strike and a lord who has reasons for this that remain unknown.’
‘Unless it is greed, and the lord de Lasson,’ Walkelin reminded them.
‘He is your chief suspect, eh, Walkelin? Any reason other than he is a miserly-looking misery with a high opinion of himself?’
‘Well, my lord, I would say, as Serjeant Catchpoll would be like to do, “it seems a good enough reason to be getting on with”.’
The three men laughed, and were still in a hopeful mood as they entered Wich and headed for the reeve’s house. It was clear that Walter had been looking out for them, however, since he came out of his door whilst they were still a couple of hundred yards away.
‘My lord Undersheriff,’ Walter cried, hurrying towards them – ‘Like a charging goose’, mumbled Walkelin from the side of his mouth – ‘there is so much to tell you. We may have solved our crime! There is salt and a strange occurrence and a man with a bow and …’
Catchpoll noted that it was now ‘our’ crime, when before the reeve had wanted as much distance as possible between himself and the problem.
‘Stop, wait, and take a breath!’ Bradecote held up a hand. ‘Master Reeve, do not simply throw everything at us in a jumble, like a basket of eels. Let us go into your house and sit calmly, and you can tell us everything, just as calmly.’
The reeve nodded, and appeared to ‘shoo’ them towards his house.
‘Now he thinks we are the geese,’ whispered Walkelin to Serjeant Catchpoll.
Once inside, he bade them sit upon the bench at his board, and called for his wife to bring refreshment, though Bradecote brushed the offer aside, with suitable thanks.
‘Tell us piece by piece, and slowly now,’ he recommended, though his words seemed to fall upon deaf ears.
‘Mistress Agar vows she saw a stranger in a hooded cloak, trotting north the day before yesterday. She lives at the edge of town by the northern road.’
‘What was so suspicious about a man on the northern road? It is well used.’
Catchpoll was frowning. He remembered the last woman’s sighting that he had to investigate, and did not want another waste of his time.
‘But she said he looked “odd”.’
‘Hmmmm. In what way?’
‘Strange. He did not acknowledge her when she told him to be careful upon the road.’
‘Ah, so a lack of courtesy makes a man a killer, does it?’ Catchpoll was scathing, and the reeve pouted.
‘If you do not wish to hear—’
‘No, go on, Master Reeve.’ Bradecote threw his serjeant an admonishing glance. ‘We do have to sift what comes our way, though, to decide which line we should, er, follow first.’
‘And she said she has heard from someone, she thinks it was the Widow Carpenter, that the Ghost Archer rode a chestnut horse with a lightning flash blaze down its nose, and this man’s horse had just such. She said it made her shiver, and she was almost glad he did not turn his face to her in case the hood contained no face at all.’
Catchpoll groaned. It was just as he had feared. Once you added the seasoning of the spectral, imaginations ran wild.
‘My lord, might I suggest we first send Walkelin here to speak to the Widow … Carpenter, and find out just where she got the information on the horse, and then see Mistress Agar.’
‘Good idea, Sergeant Catchpoll. Walkelin, get directions to this dame and nip off to see her. I have no doubt you can be back here before we head out upon a more “vital” trail. Be swift.’
Walkelin nodded and, after a few words from the reeve, left in suitable haste.
‘Now, what next, Master Reeve?’
‘The bowman, my lord.’
‘A man with a bow or The Bowman, Master Reeve? There is a huge difference.’
‘Er, I cannot say for sure, my lord, for I did not see him myself, now. But three children saw him at the edge of the town.’
Catchpoll’s eyes narrowed.
‘Of what sort of age?’
‘They could not say that, Serjeant, they were too far away.’
‘No,’ Catchpoll kept his patience under control, ‘I meant the age of the witnesses.’
‘Ah, I am sorry, I thought you meant—’
‘Yes, Master Reeve, we understand what you thought.’ Bradecote was as impatient as Catchpoll, and hid it less well. ‘Now just tell us.’
‘The lad was about twelve, yes, for he is old enough for the tithing come next Whitsuntide. The other two, his brothers, are younger. They must be, as I reckon it, eight and six, for there was a sister in between,
though she died last Lammastide of a fever.’
‘What exactly did they see, these lads?’
‘As they told me, they saw a man, right at the edge of town, sort of creeping about, furtive-like, and he had what looked like an unstrung bow in his hand. They saw him bend it to string, look about him, and then he saw them. He turned and raised the bow as if to fire at them, and … they ran.’
‘We need to speak to these boys.’
‘I thought you would, my lord, and they live barely a stone’s throw, or should that be an arrow’s flight’ – he suddenly sounded quite jocular – ‘from this house. I sent the wife to fetch them after you needed no sustenance.’ As if on cue, Mistress Reeve returned, a little flustered, fearing she was tardy, but having had to wait whilst the boys’ mother ‘made ’em respectable’ to go in front of the embodiment of the law.
‘Here they are. Right, boys, you tell the lord Undersheriff here what you saw, and no lies, or he’ll have your tongues out,’ the reeve declared, with relish.
The youngest child’s eyes widened in horror. The eldest tried to look brave, but failed. Bradecote pursed his lips and shook his head at the reeve. He then looked at the three boys, and smiled, he hoped, encouragingly.
‘You sit upon that bench and perhaps Mistress Reeve might find you a honey cake.’ He looked to Mistress Reeve, who bridled, but in the face of Hugh Bradecote’s most charming smile, became as sweet as the honey itself, and nodded.
The eldest lad looked suspicious, but the younger two relaxed. After all, why should a man who offered honey cakes then want to cut out your tongue?
‘So, now, you tell us what you told Master Reeve, about the man you saw yesterday.’
‘We was at the south edge of town, by the brook, my lord, just sort of messing. I am in charge of the swine that were rooting at the edge of the wood,’ and here the oldest boy’s chest swelled with pride at having a proper occupation, ‘though there are far fewer since the culling for the winter. I hate that.’ He sighed. ‘So there were not many to oversee, and, well, I could join in the games.’
‘Playing soldiers,’ piped up the smallest, helpfully.
Catchpoll smiled at him, which made him look imploringly at Mistress Reeve for motherly protection when she returned with a honey cake for each of the trio.
‘What did you see? Tell us in detail.’
‘There was a man, not as tall as yourself, my lord, just where the trees thin out. He had a long staff as I thought at first, but then he set his foot to the bottom and flexed the top, so it must have been a bow he was stringing. He reached up, the way you do to loop over the top to tension it. Then he looked to either side, as if he did not want to be seen, but he caught sight of us, and then—’
‘He would have put arrows through our hearts,’ interjected the middle brother, with just a touch of ghoulish relish, since the dreaded deed had not taken place.
Catchpoll and Bradecote exchanged looks. Something was not quite right, though the boys clearly spoke the truth.
‘He raised the bow, aiming straight at us, so we ran, my lord. I feared he would have taken a pig but when I went back they was all there.’
‘He was old, for an archer.’ The youngest, fortified by a honey cake and Mistress Reeve’s presence, spoke up.
‘You couldn’t tell,’ chided his eldest brother, and looked to Bradecote. ‘He was cloaked and hooded, my lord.’
‘But I saw the beard, I’m sure of it,’ complained the little boy, in the whine of one who is frequently ignored, ‘and it was greyed, so he was old.’
The eldest brother would have spoken again, but Bradecote held up a finger to silence him.
‘Describe him as you saw him; I am listening.’
There was a moment’s hesitation, and the little boy screwed his face up in concentration and shut his eyes. It was a face worthy of Catchpoll.
‘He was old. Not young and thin. His cloak did not hang down straight from his shoulders but went out,’ the little hands illustrated a ball shape. ‘And I saw a whitish beard. I did, honest.’ His confidence suddenly drained. ‘Don’t cut my tongue out!’
‘No, more like I shall give you a silver halfpenny, if you just tell me what sort of whitish beard. Was it long? Is that how you saw it?’
The child shook his head.
‘I could just see under his hood. I am littlest.’
There was a logic to it, Bradecote admitted.
‘Thank you,’ he said, ‘you have been more use to us than soldiers, you know.’
The boys were obviously impressed by this statement, and even more by the silver halfpenny that was given to them upon dismissal. Once they had gone, however, the sheriff’s men shook their heads.
‘I’d swear that was not our man,’ murmured Catchpoll. ‘Those boys spoke true enough, what they saw, but it is all wrong.’
‘We cannot even be sure they saw a bow. None mentioned a quiver and arrows and what would the Archer be doing, stringing his bow there? In fact,’ Bradecote paused as an idea formed in his brain, and then continued slowly, ‘you know it all seems a bit of mummery. A hooded and cloaked man creeping about at a distance where he might just be seen, and our man apparently a stickler for a good shot, and a hunter’s son, brought up to stealth; they do not go together. But a man keen to lay a false scent and watch us chase our tails, that is another thing entirely. This “bowman” was portly rather than lithe, and bearded. Remember how the lord of Shelsley was so smug and mocking yesterday?’
‘Aye, he was. And that would fit. No doubt he thought up the chestnut horse, too. Why else come to spend the day in Wich, when he would rather be sniffing about the lady FitzPayne and think of Cookhill as his?’
Bradecote did not like the thought of Jocelyn ‘sniffing about’ Christina FitzPayne, but did not let it show upon his face.
Walter Reeve was only just catching up.
‘You mean this is of no use to you, my lord?’
‘No, Master Reeve, it just shows us there are those who would rather see us fail than succeed.’
‘Might Jocelyn of Shelsley even be … No, it does not hang together.’ Catchpoll was thinking out loud. ‘The death of Corbin FitzPayne could not be covered up so elaborately, not with all these attacks, and besides, who would have known he would be upon that road at that hour?’
‘Could it be coincidence?’ Bradecote was alongside Catchpoll, in thought. ‘Could he have planned the attacks and then Corbin been a bonus?’
‘What motive, my lord? He has one now, but …’
Bradecote’s brow furrowed.
‘I do not see why he should want mischief, Catchpoll.’
Catchpoll pulled a face. This was neither time nor place to explain, and it was a delicate matter. Catchpoll disliked delicate matters. He skirted round as best he could, with half the truth.
‘My lord, Cookhill is held of the lord Sheriff. If FitzPayne’s brother is dead and dust, then instead of handing it to the uninspiring lord of Shelsley, a sheriff grateful for the successful end to this might be of a mind to hand it to the man who proved his worth.’
‘You mean Jocelyn of Shelsley thinks that I …’
‘It is logical, my lord.’
Catchpoll left it at that. Bradecote would work out that the lady was also involved, but at least the reeve would remain in the dark. The undersheriff assimilated this new information and was silent some minutes. The reeve, still more concerned that his information had not inspired plaudits, coughed and asked whether he should continue.
‘Also, my lord, there came in a man from along the Leominster road, who reported villagers at Holt frightened by strange happenings. It would seem unlikely his information was set there by the lord of Shelsley. When there was a sharp frost yesterday there was a field with a patch where no frost took upon the ground, and the buck from the woods came out and sniffed it, they did.’
Catchpoll was about to speak when a thought hit him, and he could see by the look upon the undersheriff’s face that it ha
d hit him also.
‘Is that man still in Wich, Master Reeve?’
‘Er, I do not know. He brought a damaged wheel to our wheelwright, their own one having taken and died last month. I would suppose he is still there.’
‘Send for him, please.’
While the reeve hurried away, Bradecote and Catchpoll took the opportunity to talk.
‘Salt would do that, my lord, if dumped, but why they did not think of that, I do not know. Must be fools, the lot of ’em.’
‘Possibly, but more like they simply do not think ahead much. They just accept what they see and do not try to connect things. What is important is the position. Perhaps it means we should look to the west for whoever sets the Archer on his path.’
‘Might do, my lord, but might also mean the opposite.’
Bradecote ran a hand through his hair.
‘That is true enough.’ He sighed. ‘We had best wait for the man.’
It was Walkelin who arrived first however, his face set and not at all happy.
‘So was it another wild duck chase, young Walkelin?’
‘Oh yes, Serjeant. The widow who saw a hooded man upon a chestnut horse was all talk of ghosts and evil deeds but had nothing more than her “feelings” as evidence, as you might imagine, but what rankles is where she got the gossip that sent her running to the reeve. Widow Carpenter, the one who told her the Ghost Archer definitely rode a chestnut with a lightning blaze, had the word of it from “a very grand man, a lordly-looking man with grey hair and white-flecked beard”. Sound familiar?’
‘We should have guessed. Jocelyn of Shelsley, again, the crafty bastard!’
‘Couldn’t have put it better myself, Catchpoll.’
‘Again?’ Walkelin looked from one to the other, but received no direct answer.
‘Thing is, has he sown the seeds of everything we are going to hear today?’ Catchpoll sucked his teeth.
‘We will not know until we have delved further, but well done, Walkelin, that saved us going after some innocuous man on a chestnut horse. We could have wasted the day upon that alone, and had half of Wich running after us about every chestnut they saw, if we asked around. I will want words with the lord of Shelsley, strong words, and, by the Rood, he will not enjoy them.’
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