Ordeal by Fire

by Sarah Hawkswood

  In all, the glover’s, the carpenter’s wood store and workshop, his house and an almost forgotten, narrow dwelling between the carpenter’s and a besom maker’s, had been destroyed. A sudden horrible thought struck Catchpoll; nobody had thought about the little cott. It had been no wider than a doorway and a shuttered window, and only the door frame now marked where once it had stood.

  ‘Who lived here?’ The question was urgent enough to rouse the glover.

  ‘Why, Old Edgyth, she’s a widow and—’ He stopped and blenched beneath the soot on his cheeks. ‘Sweet Jesu, I never thought!’

  ‘Has she been seen, today?’ Catchpoll could feel grim foreboding rising like bile, and anticipated the shake of the glover’s head.

  Without a word, he took a half-burnt broom that the besom maker had leant against his shopfront, and trod gingerly over what had, only yesterday, been the widow’s threshold. His eyes scanned the blackened debris, and he used the shaft of the broom to prod about, but it was his nose that warned him. The smell of charred wood was heavy and all-pervading, but in one corner there was another smell vying with it, faint but distinctive. Burnt flesh, once recognised, was an odour, slightly sweet and like roasting swine, never forgotten. Several large beams had fallen, one flat and the others interlocked above it. Catchpoll heaved at the nearest. The blackened, crumbling surface still retained warmth, but the core of the wood was sound, and it was very heavy. He called to the glover, who came, with every show of reluctance. The pair of them moved the timbers carefully, but the glover gasped as the last one came away, and dropped the end he carried with a crash and an exclamation of horror. He put a hand to his mouth and turned away retching. Catchpoll looked down upon the crushed, black and grotesque remains of what was still just about discernible as a human form, curled up with the fists before the face. Age and gender were indiscernible, but where once there had been lips a few gapped teeth showed. The serjeant shook his head. It could be the result of an accident. The old woman could have knocked over a rush light as she prepared for the night. But if it was not … The townsfolk would link this fire with the last, whether or not it was connected, and then with the death on top they would begin to panic, seeing fire-raisers at every turn. Much as he disliked it, he would have to call for the undersheriff after all.

  Chapter Three

  The rain fell softly, as if trying not to disturb the mourners, but it had continued long enough to penetrate the top layer of soil that lay ready to fill the grave, darkening it, clogging it, so that the first few loads slid from the wooden shovel and landed with a heavy, dull thud. Hugh Bradecote had stood immobile, staring down into the trench, an uncomprehending frown creasing his brow, and with the rain plastering his dark hair to his head, dripping in chill rivulets down the back of his neck and from the end of his long, finely chiselled nose, as the priest intoned the familiar Latin of the burial service. At its conclusion, the villagers and retainers slipped away almost silently, save for the sob-laden breathing of an older woman clutching a heavily swaddled baby to her spare bosom, and protecting the tiny face from the rain: Ela’s baby; his baby; his son; his heir.

  It required a superhuman effort for Hugh to leave the sexton and his lad to their task. Walking away was breaking the last tie, seeing the last red sliver of sun set on his unexciting but not unhappy marriage, and leaving him confused and blinking in the moonless night of guilty grief. Theirs had been a fairly standard marriage based upon family and land, beneficial to both sides, entered into with the barest knowledge of the other partner. He had seen a young woman who was quite pretty, and whose voice was soft. He had not loved Ela, but that only added to his guilt, because she had loved him so very obviously, for from the first she had hero-worshipped him. He had been fond of her, though more when parted, for she had irritated him to the point of madness with her mindless adoration. Whatever he said was right; whatever he thought a good idea must be implemented without regard to any obstacles, and at once. He had sometimes returned from duty with his overlord to find his household in uproar, and Ela fluttering like a netted bird, just because tasks she thought he wanted undertaken had been delayed. All she had ever sought, he knew, was his approbation and affection, and the more she had tried, the less she had achieved.

  The pregnancy had calmed her a little, and given a serenity she had never previously possessed. She had been so proud of her increasing figure, proof at last of her success as a wife. Only at odd times had he found her fretful, and that was when she had feared the child might be a girl, even though he had kept on telling her he did not mind as long as she and the child were healthy. He had said it without great thought, merely as a soothing thing to a woman with child, never imagining what was to come.

  He had been almost relieved to be called away for several weeks earlier in the summer, his service demanded by the sheriff to take part in an expedition to break up a gang of brigands on Bredon Hill. Then, purely by chance, he had become involved in the hunt for a murderer in Pershore Abbey. At the conclusion of the investigation the sheriff had set him in the place of his newly deceased undersheriff, and so, in the end, Hugh had only returned home for the last month before the baby was due. The time had sped by, with the harvest to be got in, and a myriad of manorial duties to catch up upon, and when the time of Ela’s lying-in had come it was a complete surprise to him.

  He had returned from a pleasantly tiring day with his steward, who was keen for both his approval of plans for a new barn, and to show him the success of the year in sheep and grain. He had been anticipating a quiet evening, with a good dinner and some wine to savour, but had arrived home to find his hall in a state of mayhem and, it seemed to him, full of women. They either ignored him, or cast him accusing looks as they busied themselves with linen and pitchers, and when, on finding the cause of the bustle, he had tried to see his wife, he had been unceremoniously bundled out of his own solar.

  He had been stunned by this revolution in his household, and at the same time conscious of excitement and some trepidation. The sounds emanating from within were not pleasant, and could be heard through the solid oak of the door. Ela’s time of travail was not easy. He left the hall, and wandered around the small, palisaded bailey like a lost soul. In the kitchen he found no sign of the dinner he had expected, and had to content himself with a fresh loaf, a wedge of cheese and a slice of some cake-like pudding with plums in it. He ate them, sat upon a bench in the golden sunlight of an August evening, and stayed thus, quiet and immobile, until the sun dipped and the evening chill crept in. He returned to the hall reluctantly, but in the expectation that events would be progressing and he would see his bed, even if not until the early hours.

  In the end he slept, badly, in his chair upon the low dais, with his feet up on the trestled table and his cloak as a covering. When he had asked one of the serving women, early in the night, to bring him a blanket, she had berated him for his callous self-interest, and disappeared into the solar strident in her indignation at the selfishness of the male of the species. She had clearly imparted his crime to the other members of the sorority within, for he neither got his blanket nor peace. Whenever a woman emerged during the night, he was convinced they were especially noisy to keep him from sleep. He awoke a final time, with a crick in his neck and pins and needles in one arm, as dawn broke, a dawn that brought neither resolution nor rest. He had never imagined that childbirth took so long. In his masculine innocence and ignorance, he had assumed that it would take some hours as a battle took place over a number of hours. This was the battle that women fought, and at the end emerged exhausted but victorious. The small voice of reality inside his head that reminded him of the battles lost grew louder.

  As the morning progressed, the atmosphere began to change. When he saw any of the women they were clearly tired, but there was a grimness to them that Hugh could not ignore. The groans and cries from the solar were weaker, though frequent, and it was just before noon that his ears detected a different cry, the surprised and indignant c
ry of the newborn cast from the warm security of the womb into the vastness of the world. He got up suddenly, and swayed, for he had been sitting a long time, and the blood rushed to his feet. He gripped the arms of his seat for support, excitement building. It would be a few minutes more, he told himself, for babes needed cleaning and swaddling. He thought perhaps his wife’s tirewoman would bring the baby out to him if Ela was still being tended.

  The door opened, and the youngest of the serving wenches hurried past, tight-lipped, without so much as a word or glance. A ball of fear began to knot itself in his stomach. He went to the door, left half open, and stood upon the threshold. Even a man could tell that the scene was not right. Ela lay back upon the bed, a small bundle tucked next to her head. Her tirewoman, who had been her own nurse, was stroking her brow and rocking gently to and fro, with tears coursing down her cheeks. The other women were silent. One was praying, her lips moving wordlessly, while another was bundling bloodied cloths out the way. There was an awful lot of blood; upon the linen, upon the midwife’s arms, and upon the bed. The sheet was drawn up to Ela’s chin, but a large and very wet, bright-red stain seemed to be spreading through it, like the petals of a scarlet flower.

  Hugh said nothing. Words would not come, and he looked blankly at the women. The accusation was still there: you brought her to this; it is your blame. Now, though, there was also pity. A hand in the small of his back propelled him forward.

  ‘She’ll want to see you, my lord,’ whispered the woman.

  He drew close to the head of the bed. His wife’s face was unnaturally pale, and tinged blue around the lips. Her eyes struggled to focus upon him, and her voice, when it came, took all her strength yet emerged as a frail thread of sound. He had seen such faces before, but most had been men, or old. He had stood at his father’s bedside, but that death had been a while coming, and was a relief in the end, and his mother, well, he had been away then, and another lord had informed him of his loss, and another lady had held him as he, at fourteen, wept in desolation. But this was his wife, this was Ela, who had not seen a score of summers, and had just given him a child. He had ridden out yesterday and she had even been laughing, happy, and now …

  ‘See, my lord. I have given you a son. You are pleased?’ Even now she sought confirmation of his approbation.

  He reached out a trembling hand and touched her cheek, which was clammy cold.

  ‘Of course I am pleased, sweet. Now you must rest and …’ He halted, for the lies would not come. She was dying, and she knew it as well as he did.

  Her hand crept with great effort to grip his own tightly, though he felt it as not more than a fragile clasp.

  ‘You will see he is loved.’ It was an affirmation not a plea. Ela Bradecote’s voice was scarce more than a whisper, but level and calm. ‘I would ask a favour, my lord.’

  He made a strangled sound that she correctly interpreted as assent.

  ‘Name him for my father. Gilbert Bradecote sounds well, I think.’ She paused, and sighed. ‘I am sorry, Hugh, but I have no strength left.’ She closed her eyes. ‘It is not so hard … dying … but I wish … our baby … so sorry, my lord. Hugh, I …’ Whatever words were in her clouding thoughts, dimmed and disappeared. Her eyes closed, the lids drooping until shut.

  Hugh felt a hand on his shoulder and jumped. It was the priest, Father Achard. The parish priest said nothing, but passed immediately round to the other side of the bed and knelt beside the dying woman. It must be like drowning, thought Hugh dimly; he was aware but unable to do anything, and all was taking place so very slowly. He watched, as the good Father gave the Last Rites; as the breathing grew more shallow; and ceased so softly that it was perhaps a full minute before he realised she was gone. It seemed so easy, as she had said, dying. There was no sound in the chamber for what seemed an age, and then the baby, still lying beside its dead mother, whimpered and broke the spell. The old nurse made to pick him up, but Hugh pushed her hand aside, quite fiercely, and lifted his son to look for a moment into the impossibly blue eyes within the tiny, puckering, red face. Then he held him close, the baby’s cheek, soft as doeskin, against his own unshaven one, and shut his eyes as they filled with tears and a ball of angry misery filled his chest.

  Eventually, the nurse took the infant, and Father Achard led Hugh Bradecote into the hall and sat him down. He leant forward, sagging.

  ‘It is my fault,’ whispered Hugh, looking down at his hands, which shook. He clasped them as if in prayer, but tightly so that the knuckles whitened, in an effort to still them. ‘It is my fault.’

  ‘No, my son.’ Father Achard laid a hand on his arm. ‘It was God’s will. Your lady wife was a good Christian soul, and departed shriven. God will look kindly upon her and show His grace upon those she leaves behind. I cannot tell you why she was taken now, for I have never truly understood how it can be best for a babe to arrive at the moment of its mother’s departure, but I have been at many such bedsides. The boy will be a comfort to you; a gift from God and from her. Do not blame yourself. She would not want it, would she?’

  ‘You do not understand, Father.’ Hugh looked up, and there was horror in his wet eyes. ‘It is because of my sin. That is why God has taken her from me, and from our son. Mea culpa, mea culpa, mea maxima culpa.’

  The priest frowned. Grieving husbands were generally easy to comprehend, if not to solace.

  ‘You take too much upon yourself. God would not take her life to punish you. I am—’

  ‘Please, Father. Hear my confession; hear it now.’

  So it was that Hugh Bradecote told the priest of his feelings, unexpected and intense, for a Benedictine Sister he had known, for a few days only, earlier in the summer, during the investigation of the murders at Pershore Abbey.

  Father Achard listened patiently to the whole tale. In truth, he thought that Hugh Bradecote’s sin was a minor misdemeanour in the catalogue of sins he had heard confessed in his time. The man had fallen slightly enamoured of a nun, rather for her spirit and her mind, he gathered, than carnal desires for her flesh, at a time when both were in a stressful situation, and the culmination of this four-day interlude had been a single kiss. Well, it was a sin, no doubt of it, but not one so dreadful that it would bring down damnation from On High. He supposed that, facing such a loss, Bradecote found it easier to have a reason than for it to be inexplicable. The priest gave him his penance, more to prove to the man that there was forgiveness than chasten him. It was evident that his conscience had already been far more rigorous than any priest.

  After the funeral the lord of the manor withdrew into his hall, morose and monosyllabic. The baby gave the nurse distraction from her grief, and the wet nurse provided a focus for her complaints, but Hugh Bradecote felt superfluous in his own home. He looked at his son with a mixture of pride and incomprehension. He could detect no resemblance to either Ela or himself, whatever the nurse said, and sounds and movements that seemed to cause so much delight among the cooing women meant nothing to him. A newborn was not something, someone, to whom he as a man could relate. The pride that would normally suffice, the pride that said ‘this is the living proof of my potency, the next of my line’, was tempered by the knowledge that the simple and pleasurable act of giving his seed had cost Ela not just the months of sickness and carrying, but her very life. The women removed her garments, the clear signs of her presence, but he found little things, a comb, a half-stitched baby cap, things that chastised him for her absence. How often, he thought, bitterly, had he wished for peace from her fussing, and to be left alone. Well, now he was left alone.

  His retainers tried to leave him alone, reading an unexpected depth of loss in his behaviour. Their very respectful withdrawal, and lowered voices in his presence, added to the atmosphere of gloom. Hugh himself did not miss his wife particularly; did not keep recalling things she had said or how she had looked, although sometimes, out of habit, he expected to turn and see her, anxiously adoring as ever. He was filled, however, with an enormous
lethargy and inability to think, his brain clogged as though with the solid earth that covered her shrouded, coffined corpse. Whilst the priest had granted absolution, he still felt a weight of guilt, now because he had not loved Ela. That he had not been expected to love her was immaterial. If he had tried harder, could he have loved her? Had he expected too much of her? Should he have told her the soft, kind lie, as she departed life, that he did love her?

  For the best part of three weeks Hugh Bradecote ceased to function properly. He ate sparely, slept badly, and began to look thin, hollow of cheek, sunken of eye, and unkempt. Then the message arrived from Worcester. Simon Furnaux, the castellan, was calling him in as undersheriff, to head the investigation into a series of suspicious fires in the absence of his superior.

  Bradecote had to read the missive several times before he broke free of the fog within his mind. Then he roused himself, without enthusiasm but at least with a purpose. He shaved his rough-bearded chin, nicking the skin and swearing volubly as the blood dripped into the bowl of water. He had never been squeamish about the sight of blood, but the welling redness suddenly brought back the image of the bed, the bed from which he had sent all coverings, and the palliasse also, to be burnt, soaked as it was with blood, so much blood, her blood, and never a wound from which it could have come. He shook himself, thrusting the image into as far a recess of his brain as he could, dressed in fresh attire and called for his horse. He was actually on the point of departure when he remembered his son. He dismounted, and went back to the solar. The nursemaid was half asleep by the glowing brazier that warmed the room, for even the summer warmth did not pass through the thick stone walls. Gilbert Bradecote lay asleep in his cradle, one tiny fist, escaped from the swaddling, pressed against his cheek. Hugh bent and kissed his son very softly, offered up a prayer to God, and left without a backward glance.