Ordeal by Fire

by Sarah Hawkswood

  ‘Right, Serjeant. I am away north to assist the lord bishop here. In my absence you can keep your ears open in case of information that would prove this either way. I should not be gone for more than,’ he paused, as the bishop made a sound between a cough and a growl, ‘a week, or perhaps ten days. If there are further developments you can always send to my lord Bradecote and call him in. A little work would do my new undersheriff no harm. The harvest is in, and his brat should have been born by now. He would probably be glad to escape cooing women and a screaming infant in his hall.’

  With that he nodded dismissal, and Catchpoll withdrew, muttering under his breath.

  He had worked once with Hugh Bradecote, the new undersheriff, and had no real complaints about him, but he was still very green, and much inclined to get far too involved in what Catchpoll saw as his own remit. The old undersheriff, de Crespignac, had given the sheriff’s serjeant pretty much a free hand, and Catchpoll preferred it that way. There had been no question about his methods as long as the result was satisfactory and de Crespignac could make it sound as though the inspiration were his own. The new man wanted to be far more involved; indeed he had taken the last case with little delegation at all. Serjeant Catchpoll heaved a heavy sigh, and ambled glumly back towards the kitchens, where he slipped into the dim brewhouse, and drew himself a pot of small beer under the indulgent gaze of the florid-faced, motherly woman who was busy filling pitchers for the sheriff’s table. He gave her a slow, conspiratorial wink, with just enough of a leer to make her giggle and redden even further. She waddled out, still beaming, and Catchpoll, wiping the residue from his lips with the back of his hand, headed for hearth and home, and the consolation of partridge pudding.

  Chapter Two

  The sheriff’s absence was not marked by any sudden increase in criminal activity within Worcester, and the first week of September passed without any incident worth calling upon the undersheriff. A successful hue and cry was raised over a cutpurse who attempted to empty the scrip of a wealthy townsman; a woman who claimed to have had her washing stolen from the drying grounds was found to have made up the tale to lay blame on a neighbour’s servant, with whom she believed her husband to be having a liaison; and the thief who stole a leg of lamb from the butcher Cuthbert turned out to be a half-starved mongrel, whose owner had tried to use hunger to make it a more aggressive watchdog. Harsh words and the handing over of remuneration had ended the matter, though Catchpoll thought the dog would get a beating it did not deserve.

  Serjeant Catchpoll was able to diffuse a boundary dispute between two potters, former partners, by the simple expedient of taking Hammon, a man-at-arms of enormous proportions, with him on the visit, and suggesting, ever so reasonably, that if they did not come to an amicable agreement, Hammon would become very upset. When he was upset, explained Catchpoll conversationally, Hammon was inclined to throw his arms about in a very wild fashion. The potters looked at Hammon, who grinned innocently at them. He did not appear to be a man who would be easily upset. Catchpoll, on the other hand, looked just the sort of mean, malcontented bastard who would enjoy setting his tame giant to the wanton destruction of honest men’s livelihoods. The potters, however little they liked each other, were not going to risk their goods, and, with fixed smiles and gritted teeth, shook hands and clapped each other on the back like brothers. Catchpoll’s wolfish grin grew broader and the evil twinkle, detected by the disputants, became more pronounced.

  He departed well pleased with the outcome, and convinced of the efficacy of his unorthodox methods. There were those who would have sought an end to the problem by negotiation and compromise, and oaths from all and sundry. The sheriff’s serjeant regarded such disputes in the same way as he used to look upon squabbles between his children over a plaything. His method, which involved the removal, or destruction, of the article disputed unless both sides behaved, had been very successful, and had generally involved both parties uniting in their loathing of such a family despot. That numbers of the Worcester populace saw him in a similar light worried him not at all. In contented mood, he purchased a handful of plums from a market stall and deposited half of them in Hammon’s huge paw of a hand.

  ‘Just to keep you sweet, Hammon,’ he laughed, biting into the soft flesh and spitting the stone at a mangy cur, scratching behind its ear. ‘Don’t want you upset, do we.’

  The stalls were doing brisk trade, and Catchpoll threaded his way like an eel among the vendors and purchasers, soon outpacing the giant Hammon. Despite his swift progress, his sixth sense, the criminal-detecting one, worked as ever among crowds. Nevertheless, he was taken by surprise as a small boy, running at full pelt, cannoned into him from behind.

  ‘Stop, thief!’ The shrill cry of a woman, still hidden from Catchpoll’s sight, made the serjeant grab the urchin almost instinctively, as he turned about. The child looked up, wary, fearful eyes staring from a grubby, undernourished face.

  ‘Please, my lord. Let me go,’ the boy whimpered, but Catchpoll’s grip remained firm.

  The owner of the shrill voice barged into view. She was a lanky, shrew-faced woman with glittering eyes and a skinny, heaving bosom, who ignored Catchpoll, and raised her hand to strike the boy.

  ‘Steal my apples, would you, whelp? Well, I’ll knock the teeth from your head so you’ll bite into no more of ’em, and set you before the law. They hangs thieves like you.’

  As her hand came down in the first blow, it was barred by the serjeant’s arm. The woman started, suddenly aware of his presence, and sneered at him.

  ‘Don’t you protect vermin like him, or did you set him to steal?’ She halted what would have been a tirade as she took stock of the man before her; grim face, hard, cold eyes and a thin-lipped mouth, which was set in an uncompromising line.

  ‘What exactly did he steal?’ The voice was slow, quiet and yet threatening, with lips barely parted.

  The apple-seller looked less sure of herself. ‘My apples.’ She turned for support among the other vendors. ‘How can an honest woman earn her bread if thieves, even small ’uns, go unchecked?’

  There was a ripple of agreement, a vague murmur of general support.

  Catchpoll looked down at the child. ‘Show me.’ It was a command, and the little boy, trembling, opened a dirty fist. Within lay a small, malformed, and bruised apple.

  ‘It had fell off the basket, my lord, and rolled a bit. I thought nobody wanted it.’ The piping voice was scarcely more than a whisper.

  ‘It was still mine,’ averred the apple woman, holding out her hand, with its thin, talon-like fingers, to take it back.

  The urchin looked up at Catchpoll’s harsh face. The man nodded, and with a sniff, the child handed back the purloined apple.

  The woman smiled as if she had been given a silver penny. ‘Now we take him for justice.’

  Catchpoll’s grip on the child tightened, and it cried out, but his eyes were on the woman.

  ‘I am Justice.’

  The woman’s jaw dropped. The voice was so icy, the gaze so hard, Catchpoll could have claimed to be death itself and she would have believed him.

  ‘You cry thief on a starved child for the sake of a wizened fruit most folk would feed to the swine, and take pride in it. Well, shame upon you, woman, and if the rest of your wares are as poor, I doubt you’ll have many customers.’

  The small crowd that had gathered to watch, took a step back from the woman, as if she carried contagion. She sensed the change, and bit her lip, but gave in with reluctance.

  ‘Say whatever you will, I have the right … but no matter. In this case, since the fruit may have been damaged, I’ll not take it further, but mind you give him a sound thrashing.’ She turned on her heel and stalked away with as much dignity as she could muster, and little expectation of being heeded.

  Within moments the attention of the crowd had dissipated, and Catchpoll, stepping back from the main thoroughfare, regarded his small captive. The child was confused, not knowing whether the man was
his protector or the instrument of retribution. Catchpoll squatted down to be more of a height with the boy, and smiled, though the smile only made the scared eyes widen further.

  ‘So, Master Criminal, what have you to say?’

  ‘I thought it wasn’t wanted, honest, my lord. I doesn’t want to be hanged.’

  ‘And why did you take it? What will your mother say, when I lead you home?’

  The boy opened his mouth, but before he could answer another voice gave it for him.

  ‘He did it because he’ll starve else, and there’s no home, nor mother neither, for you to take him to.’

  Catchpoll turned. A girl, probably no more than twelve years old, had come up behind him. She was ragged, and though her face was cleaner than the urchin’s, it was as drawn and pale. Her voice was devoid of emotion, excepting perhaps the hint of a challenge, and her eyes ran him up and down, assessing him. Then they met his, and Catchpoll read in them all he needed to know. There was desperation, hopelessness and despair, as often amongst the destitute, but in addition there was a grim determination, and worst of all, a cynical condemnation. They were the eyes of a woman who knows how men can be at their worst, and counts all men as guilty, yet they were set in the body of a child.

  ‘Leave go of him, my lord, and I am sure there’s something better you could be doing than beating him.’

  She smiled provocatively, while her eyes accused. The come-on was clumsy, and turned Catchpoll’s stomach. He stood, slowly.

  ‘I’ve a granddaughter your age, girl. What do you take me for?’

  She shrugged. ‘Same as the rest.’

  ‘Well, I’m not, see. Now don’t play off tawdry tricks on me and just answer honest. If you’ve no home, where do you rest?’

  ‘Where we can. There’s stores and outhouses enough if you’re small, and careful, and I can make enough to keep us from eating the rats. There’s not much, mind, so Huw scavenges what he can. But I’ve told him, and often, not to steal.’

  ‘And how long has this been so?’

  ‘Since second week before Easter, when our Mam died.’

  ‘Your father?’

  ‘Dead these three years, and we’ve no other kin. Mam was out of Wales. I promised her I’d look to Huw, and so I will, till he’s old enough and big enough to take proper work.’

  Catchpoll did not ask what the girl expected for herself. She clearly saw no future, and she was probably right. Disease or a violent man would see her end her days young.

  It was not so rare a tale that the world-wise serjeant should have been shocked by it, yet he was, even as he chastised himself for being so soft. He dragged the remaining plums from his pocket and held them out to the boy, who snatched them lest the largesse be withdrawn.

  ‘Do as your sister says, lad, and don’t steal. I’d hate to have to take you up before the sheriff.’ He returned his gaze to the girl. He could not tell her to mend her ways, as a priest might. The situation was as it was, and he could not show her a way out, but a thought did hit him.

  ‘Since you range about the town, you might earn a little honest money from me. I am the lord sheriff’s serjeant, and I likes to know what is toward. If you hear ought of thieves or killings, you let me know of it and if it is true there’ll be coin for you. Serjeant Catchpoll, that’s me, at the castle or the house next the cooper’s in Frog Lane, just beyond the castle gate.’

  The girl pursed her lips, and then nodded. Without a further word she took her brother’s hand and slipped away amongst the crowd. Catchpoll shook his head.

  ‘Never thought I’d grow that soft-hearted or soft-headed. Must really be getting old.’

  He was still tut-tutting to himself when he reached the castle, where news cast all thoughts of the waifs from his mind. Just when he had expected the sheriff to return, a messenger arrived for the castellan with the tidings that the sheriff had broken his foot, slipping on a wet stair, and was holed up in the most northerly of his own manors, with the devil’s own temper and a heavily bandaged foot. He could not be expected back in Worcester until the end of the month. Catchpoll prayed that all would stay quiet until the sheriff’s return, but, despite his display of charity, his prayers were not answered.

  It was a surprisingly warm night, lacking any sign of September chill, and with the merest sliver of a moon occasionally peering, furtively, from behind swathes of cloud, as if fearful of what it might witness. Few stars were visible amidst the velvety, blue-grey folds of the veiled night sky, and the narrow streets of Worcester were dark and oppressive. A dog was barking somewhere; its lone voice carried on the still air, but disguised its direction. From within some of the dwellings floated intimations of humanity from open upper shutters; a wailing infant being soothed by a crooning mother; a man and woman arguing; the giggling of a woman, and her lover’s laugh; a snoring like the rumble of distant thunder. The sounds hung in the air for a moment before fading, ghostlike, ephemeral. Few souls were abroad. A pair of drunken men, arms linked in alcohol-induced amiability, wove a staggering course homeward, stopping briefly when one turned to vomit in a doorway. They almost collided with the dark-hooded figure who turned into Corviserstrete with steady, purposeful stride. They exclaimed as they reeled back, sending slurred expletives after him, but the figure ignored them as if they did not exist. One of the men crossed himself shakily, and muttered something about dark nights and hellfiends. His friend clapped him on the back and laughed, more from bravado than humour.

  Catchpoll was woken from his bed in the early hours by an urgent hammering at his door. His wife groaned, and pulled the coverlet over her head, while he stumbled to cover his nakedness and, swearing as he stubbed his toe on a stool, went to open the door.

  A breathless man-at-arms stood gasping for air on the doorstep. ‘Fire, Serjeant! Fire in Corviserstrete! Come quick!’

  Cursing, Serjeant Catchpoll finished dressing haphazardly in the darkness, and left his home at the run, the man-at-arms trailing behind. The fire was more terrifying by night than one in daylight. Several properties were well alight, and sparks showered down into the street. The faces and bodies of those attempting to douse the flames were illuminated by the red-orange glow like the damned from hell, and cast grotesque shadows on the walls opposite. There was a deal of shouting and some screaming, and it took the serjeant some moments to assess the situation. A tall, broad-shouldered man seemed to have taken charge of the firefighters, and it was he whom Catchpoll first approached.

  ‘Anyone within?’ he shouted, waving at the conflagration.

  The man turned, his eyes streaming from the effect of the acrid smoke. Catchpoll recognised him as Corbin the Wheelwright.

  ‘Can’t say, and it’d be too late for any poor soul now. Wilfrid Glover got his family out in good time, but that was the last to catch.’ He coughed, and shouted for more buckets. ‘Ask Father Boniface, he was here early.’

  Catchpoll could not tell priest from parishioner in the weird firelight, but a small hand tugged at his sleeve, and he looked down to see Huw the beggar child, who pointed dumbly towards one of the men in the line passing pails.

  ‘Father Boniface?’

  A youngish priest, with a long, ascetic face rendered ghoulish by the shadow and light, turned at the sound of his name. His sleeves were rolled back and his gown kirtled to reveal white, scrawny knees, and hairy legs where no hose had chafed them smooth. Had the situation not been so serious, Catchpoll would have found him a cause for mirth.

  ‘I am Father Boniface, yes.’

  ‘Do you know if any were trapped within? The wheelwright says you were here quickly.’

  ‘I raised the alarm, certainly. By then the first building was well alight, but it was the carpenter’s wood store so I doubt there was anyone within. They would have been swift to cry “fire” if they had been there as it began. A woman and her children ran out of the dwelling when I shouted. I think her husband was not at home.’ The priest was not watching Catchpoll now, but was once more engaged i
n the bucket chain. He wiped a grimy hand across his face as he handed on another slopping pail, wetting his sandals, his face now bearing sooty streaks. The sheriff’s officer thanked him and set his mind on preventing the spread of the fire, and took charge of a dithering group of citizens armed with pitchforks and assorted implements.

  It was only an hour before dawn when Catchpoll got back to his bed, shivering where he had sluiced himself down with a bucket of water. He still stank of woodsmoke, and was only glad that his wife was a sound sleeper. Had she woken and seen the state of him, he would have been turfed out of bed and into the floor rushes.

  After an inadequate amount of rest, Catchpoll was about the sheriff’s business once more, with a muzzy headache and a foul temper. He returned to Corviserstrete, where black puddles and charred wood marked the night’s disturbance. The carpenter’s wife and children had been taken in by a neighbour. Wilfrid Glover was standing before the ruins of his business, shaking his head, his family forming a sad group behind him. He did not take any notice of the serjeant’s arrival.

  ‘Have you been amongst the ashes to find anything worth salvaging?’ Catchpoll hardly thought there could be anything left among the blackened and twisted remains.

  The glover opened his right fist, in silence. Two or three palming needles and a small knife without its handle, black but recognisable, lay upon his palm. They both stared at the remnants of his craft.

  ‘That’s all I possess. I had a fair stock of fine soft leather ready for the autumn … when the chill creeps into the air, that’s when I do my best business … but ’tis all gone, and the home with it. I’m sending my wife and the children to her brother, a tanner out on the northern road. There’s those who’ll help but it will be seasons before I can trade alone again, and I would not take a lease here.’ The man heaved a great sigh, and Catchpoll left him with a consoling clap on the back. There were no words that could be of help.