Marked to Die

by Sarah Hawkswood

  ‘Is all well, my lord?’

  The question was posed with a smile, since he would not otherwise have entered so quietly.

  ‘Indeed, my lady, all is well. I must … we must … Christina …’ He stepped forward and took her hands. ‘I must continue on to Worcester, but you should take your men home, home to Cookhill. We must part, for now.’

  Her fingers gripped his, but she smiled up at him.

  ‘I do understand. I shall do as you bid, my lord, for it will be good practice, will it not, for the obedience due of a wife.’ Her voice faltered. ‘It will be permitted, by the lord Sheriff?’

  ‘I think so; I hope so. I cannot be certain, my love,’ and he saw her bite her lip at the appellation, ‘for William de Beauchamp is a tempersome man. He might take some persuading.’

  ‘But you will be persuasive, my lord, yes?’

  ‘For certain, as persuasive as a man can be who has taken ten days to solve crimes that have claimed far too many lives.’ He pulled a wry face.

  ‘You were as swift as it was possible to be, with the lack of information.’ She coloured. ‘I am sorry.’

  ‘Do not be, for your aid far exceeded any hindrance.’

  He smiled at her, and saw the answering smile in her eyes, and felt the pressure of her fingers increase. Despite their location, he lifted her chin to kiss her softly, but halted as the door creaked.

  ‘My lord,’ Walkelin popped his head around the door, ‘I think you should come. The lord Sheriff is here.’

  Bradecote squeezed Christina’s hand and went out into the wind, which whipped his cloak about him. William de Beauchamp was arriving with a show of force, the full panoply of shrieval authority. He wanted Wich to know this was his shire, and events such as had rocked the town these last few weeks would not be tolerated. As he drew close it could be seen that his features were set in an uncompromising severity. Bradecote hoped that the news he could present to him might at least soften his expression in private. Serjeant Catchpoll, who was still standing with the guard over the corpses, abandoned his post and came forward. Bradecote heard the door creak behind him, and knew that Christina was there. He took a deep breath, and strode forward with an air of calm confidence.

  De Beauchamp glared down at him, and the eyes narrowed. So he had made an end to it had he? Well, about time too. If Bradecote thought he was about to be showered with praise before the populace, he had another thing coming. They had to know William de Beauchamp was a hard man to please, and not one to cross. He let the silence continue for perhaps half a minute.

  ‘So, my lord Bradecote, it seems you have achieved your goal, at least while there are still good people of Wich left standing. Tell me,’ and his eyes gave the signal that it should be in a way fit for public consumption, ‘what and how this has been achieved, at last.’

  Catchpoll spared the undersheriff a grimace. If the lord de Beauchamp was in one of these moods, he would need a lot to please him.

  ‘My lord, we have taken into custody all those connected with the murders of your vassal, the lord Corbin FitzPayne, the packmen and drivers, and the thefts of salt upon the King’s highway, including the man who killed the reeve of this town.’

  He saw the surprise cross de Beauchamp’s face.

  ‘The reeve is dead also?’

  ‘Yes, my lord. Unfortunately, he believed he could apprehend one of the culprits on his own, and did not bring his information to the law, for which error he paid with his life, though he did it for the benefit of his town.’

  It was like presenting the facts as a mummery, thought Bradecote. What he had just said was designed to remind the people that going to the sheriff’s officers was less dangerous than going it alone, and to give the reeve’s widow some pride. If her husband had been a fool, at least pretend it was solely for his town.

  William de Beauchamp raised an eyebrow, but said nothing. He then looked to the cart.

  ‘You appear to have pre-empted the noose in some cases.’

  ‘My lord Sheriff, the two bodies you see are those of the man who planned these crimes, and arranged for their carrying out … Baldwin de Malfleur of Rushock, and of Aelward the Archer, who was the instrument of the actual killings.’

  ‘De Malfleur, by the Rood it is.’ The sheriff peered a little closer. ‘Small loss, I would say. He appears to have an arrow in his eye. And the other body has the addition of an ash shaft sticking out of it. Was there an unexpected shower of judgemental arrows, Bradecote, or a falling-out of thieves?’

  ‘Not the former and not quite the latter, my lord. We discovered the identity of the man behind the crimes and went to Rushock but de Malfleur was holding lady FitzPayne as a hostage, as a shield. Aelward the Archer arrived independently. He had discovered he was doing the bidding of the man who had foully murdered his lord, Ivo of Clent, in the Holy Land. De Malfleur admitted it freely. De Malfleur had a man ready to kill the Archer, but Aelward chose to save the life of lady FitzPayne and sacrifice his own.’

  De Beauchamp did not enquire, at this point, how the lady FitzPayne came to be a hostage. He saw her advance and stand beside his undersheriff, and he thought he noticed their fingers touch, surreptitiously.

  ‘It is as the lord Undersheriff says, my lord. I would not stand here now, were it not for Aelward the Archer. He killed innocent men, but his last act was to strike down the guilty.’

  ‘My lady. My condolences. Corbin FitzPayne was a good man, and a loyal one.’

  She made obeisance.

  ‘Thank you, my lord.’

  He dismounted, handed his horse over to a man-at-arms, and turned back to the question of culprits.

  ‘So who have we to put before the Justices for hanging?’ He was no longer speaking for public ears.

  Bradecote managed not to smile at the assumption the Justices were just there to confirm the guilt of those brought before them. The sheriff was of Catchpoll’s mind. If they were not guilty, they would not be caught and brought before the Justices.

  ‘We have the three men who stole the salt and were complicit. They also stole FitzPayne’s horse and belongings. There is also the man who organised the attacks and liaised with the Archer. This man is held solely responsible for the murder, and a gruesome one at that, of the reeve of Wich.’

  ‘He’ll hang, whether it was gruesome or not, though you can tell me about the details later.’ The sheriff lowered his voice. ‘But you are saying the man who actually killed all who fell in the attacks, and the man who planned the whole thing, are already beyond justice.’

  ‘Beyond hanging, yes, my lord, but they are dead, which is just, and God will judge them also.’

  ‘As he will judge us all, Bradecote,’ murmured de Beauchamp, wryly, ‘but that was not really my point.’

  ‘My lord, all of Wich knows that everyone involved with these deaths is either dead or for the rope. They will get over their disappointment at not seeing two of them struggling at a noose’s end soon enough.’ Catchpoll, the pragmatist, interjected.

  He was quite right. There was relief that there would be no more killings for the salt men to shake their heads and mourn. William de Beauchamp had not yet finished.

  ‘Earl Waleran will need to find a new reeve, and by the way, I had word from the Sheriff of Hereford that you had been poaching upon his ground, and harassing a lord of his shire.’

  ‘My lord,’ expostulated Bradecote, ‘we did so only because there was direct evidence that we had to investigate immediately. Had we found cause to wish the lord de Lasson taken into charge, we would, of course have contacted Miles of Gloucester.’

  ‘Of course you would,’ agreed the sheriff, eyes dancing. ‘I take it de Lasson was not entertained by your treating him as the suspect in a murder?’

  ‘My lord,’ Serjeant Catchpoll knew that de Beauchamp had no real liking for the man, and grinned, ‘he was outraged and then mightily concerned.’

  ‘Oh good,’ murmured the sheriff, whose missive from the Sheriff of Hereford
shire had made complaint in formal terms, but had no real substance. Miles of Gloucester knew that in the heat of the chase, a sheriff’s man might cross boundaries. ‘So now this matter is closed, and we can all go home. I wish you had solved this earlier, for it would have spared me a journey, and there are how many innocent corpses rotting in the ground?’

  ‘My lord!’ Bradecote glanced at Christina and then back at his superior.

  ‘Ah, my apologies, my lady. That was in poor taste.’ De Beauchamp made a growling sort of apologetic sound in his throat. ‘How many dead, though?’

  ‘Nine, including the reeve, my lord.’

  ‘Hmmmm. Am I expected to show pleasure at this?’

  ‘We worked with what we could find, my lord, which was not much, initially. We were indeed hampered by the lord Jocelyn of Shelsley, who thought it amusing to provide false trails for us.’

  ‘Him? Man’s a worm!’ declared the sheriff. ‘Though he holds of me. His father was the better man.’

  ‘He is also guilty of attempted rape and attempted murder.’

  ‘Is he? Never knew he had it in him. You live and learn. Is he to be taken for these offences?’

  ‘In the circumstances, my lord, it would be better not.’ Bradecote did not wish to give details and embarrass the lady at his side, but she did not so much as blush.

  ‘My lord Sheriff, I had to defend my honour with a knife.’ She spoke with haughty outrage.

  Christina was not impressed by the sheriff’s attitude, but at the discovery of the ‘victim’, de Beauchamp changed his tune. He had assumed some peasant had been less than willing. Whilst he did not approve, he would not have taken any action in law, unless pressed, but this altered matters.

  ‘Ah, you do not want to accuse him, my lady, in public?’

  ‘No, my lord, but I would ask that if my husband’s brother is not living, and cannot claim the manor of Cookhill and the other honours held by my husband, that he, a cousin, should not benefit.’

  ‘A cousin? Ah, I see. No, my lady, I would not have Cookhill held by such as him.’

  De Beauchamp saw her relief, and the brief glance as she looked up at Bradecote and smiled.

  ‘My lord Sheriff,’ Bradecote looked a little flustered. ‘I would ask that you might give your permission for the lady FitzPayne … That I might … when the mourning period is over …’

  The sheriff schooled his features into solemnity.

  ‘You would wish to take the lady to wife, eh? Well, I will think upon it. We will discuss the matter further when you come upon your service at All Souls.’

  It was not a refusal, thought Bradecote, which was perhaps the best he could have hoped for after the reaction to the death toll, and only a short time to wait.

  As an afterthought, de Beauchamp asked the lady herself if she was content to entertain the idea, not that he doubted her response. She blushed and dimpled.

  ‘Then I shall return to Worcester. You are with me, I take it, Catchpoll?’

  ‘Yes, my lord.’

  ‘Are you returning through Worcester, Bradecote?’

  He did not expect a positive answer.

  ‘My lord, I will return to Bradecote, and my son, but would prefer to do so having escorted the lady FitzPayne back to Cookhill.’

  ‘Yes, I do not suppose her men-at-arms are enough protection.’ The sheriff grinned. He had seen Walkelin in charge of the Cookhill men as he arrived. ‘Off you go, then, and mind, you have not as yet got my approval, remember.’

  Undersheriff and widow both coloured, but she laid her hand upon Hugh Bradecote’s arm and dipped in obeisance to de Beauchamp. Bradecote bowed to the sheriff, nodded at Catchpoll, led her back to her horse, and threw her up into the saddle.

  Catchpoll watched as Bradecote left, head held high, leading the Cookhill men, and with Christina FitzPayne at his side.

  ‘You will not say no, will you, my lord?’

  ‘You getting love-soft in your old age, Catchpoll?’

  ‘Me, my lord? No, but I would prefer to work with a man who didn’t have his heart in his boots, and hated your guts.’

  ‘Oh, I would not worry, you old dog. I will let him stew till his service is ended. He can have her come Candlemas, and if FitzPayne’s brother does not return, he can have Cookhill also.’

  ‘I think he would be content with the soft armful.’

  ‘Aye, but I would be best served with a good vassal holding Cookhill. Now, let us get home before the stench of this salt town ruins my appetite.’

  Author’s Note

  In order to make it easy for readers to follow Bradecote and Catchpoll about Worcestershire, I have generally used modern place names, but in the case of Droitwich, the centre of this tale, I have used the old form as was used in the Domesday Book and into the twelfth century, and have it as Wich. In Old English ‘wic’ was a word meaning a place, or town, but was frequently applied to one which was an artisanal or trade centre. The name Droitwich did not exist until the fourteenth century.

  Salt was a vital commodity, and the brine pits, where the brine was of a very high salinity, had made the place a centre for its production since the Roman occupation. It was very much a single-trade town, and the salt was supplied to as far afield as seventy miles away.

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  About the Author

  SARAH HAWKSWOOD describes herself as a ‘wordsmith’ who is only really happy when writing. She read Modern History at Oxford and first published a non-fiction book on the Royal Marines in the First World War before moving on to mediaeval mysteries set in Worcestershire.

  By Sarah Hawkswood

  Servant of Death

  Ordeal by Fire

  Marked to Die

  ALSO BY SARAH HAWKSWOOD

  June, 1143. The much-feared and hated Eudo – the Lord Bishop of Winchester’s clerk – is bludgeoned to death in Pershore Abbey and laid before the altar like a penitent. A despicable man he may have been, but who had reason to kill him?

  As the walls of the Abbey close in on the suspects, Serjeant Catchpoll and his new, unwanted superior, Undersheriff Hugh Bradecote must find the answer before the killer strikes again …

  September 1143. Serjeant Catchpoll hopes a fire at a Worcester silversmith’s is just an accident, but when a charred corpse is discovered following a second fire, he has no choice but to call in the undersheriff. Hugh Bradecote may be new to the job compared to his wily colleague, but his analytical eye is soon hard at work.

  With further fires and a hooded figure stalking the streets, the duo must piece together the arsonist’s vengeful motive.

  Copyright

  Allison & Busby Limited

  12 Fitzroy Mews

  London W1T 6DW

  allisonandbusby.com

  First published in Great Britain by Allison & Busby in 2017.

  This ebook edition first published in 2017.

  Copyright © 2017 by SARAH HAWKSWOOD

  The moral right of the author is hereby asserted

  in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988.

  All characters and events in this publication other than those clearly in the public domain are fictitious and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.

  All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form or by any means without the prior written permission of the publisher, nor be otherwise cir
culated in any form of binding or cover other than that in which it is published and without a similar condition being imposed on the subsequent buyer.

  A CIP catalogue record for this book is available from

  the British Library.

  ISBN 978–0–7490–2245–7