They stood where the doors of the barn would have hung. One doorpost still stood, a black finger pointing upwards, as if showing whence the flames had gone, with vestiges of a door hanging from it at a drunken angle. Catchpoll pointed to the dark, charred plank on the ground before it, remnants of the bar that had once secured it shut.
‘What do you say to the bar having been across the doors, my lord?’ Catchpoll muttered.
Bradecote nodded, and stepped over the threshold, the ash making a soft whispering sound beneath his boots. The reeve, from a ‘safe’ distance, offered the information that a horse had been in the far corner.
‘Horse, or mule,’ confirmed Catchpoll, sparing a brief glance at the remains. ‘Mule, I would guess, from the hooves and what remains.’ His interest, however, was at their feet. ‘Poor bastard.’
Bradecote nodded again, trying not to let his gorge rise. He found something vaguely obscene in the contorted, blackened remains of what had so recently been a human being. Catchpoll pulled a face, but then knelt down beside the body. A blackened timber had fallen across it, pinning it at hip level.
‘He was not dead when they shut him in.’
It was the gender that Bradecote pounced upon first.
‘Definitely a man, Catchpoll?’
‘Aye, my lord, from size alone. Look at it. A big man this, once.’
It was obvious, really, but the undersheriff had not trusted his own assessment, clouded as it was by his hopes and fears. The features were indiscernible, but the head was large, the jaw inclined to square. The burnt lips revealed the teeth as if in a grisly grin. The body was on its side, knees drawn up, the upper torso part twisted to face upwards, the fists clenched, half protecting the face, as if fighting the flames that had ravaged it, or berating an Almighty that had abandoned him to the heat of hell. Bradecote focussed upon the detail, now that his first fear was assuaged.
‘Could there not have been a blow or wound? We would not be able to tell very easily from what is left.’
‘A wound, perhaps, a blow that stunned long enough for the doors to be shut upon him? That might be so, my lord, but it was assuredly not fatal. If he had been dead already, he would lie like one dead, flat out or just crumpled. You see this position when the person lived. The body is often curled like this − defensive, I would say. The babe in the womb curls up, perhaps it is a reaction without thinking, in the face of death. A person avoiding blows will do it, but to more effect. It is a foolish response in a way, since you cannot defend yourself against flame as you would a blow, but,’ he shrugged, ‘I can give no other reason why it is so.’
‘But why? Why kill a man this way when it must have meant they lost their refuge for the night and risked discovery? It makes no sense, and they have shown sense.’
‘I doubt as it was planned, my lord, more − er − heat of the moment,’ replied Catchpoll, with one of his death’s head grins and Bradecote raised an eyebrow. ‘To be serious, I would say the fire was clearly an accident.’
‘But how did it spread here? There are signs over there,’ Bradecote pointed to the circle of ash, ‘of a fire as you would expect, outside and away from the building, and in its lee so that no local would see it. But you would have to be unbelievably stupid to try and light a fire in a barn, now, wouldn’t you?’
‘That I would not deny, my lord, but who is to say whether this great brute of a man was stupid or not? Now there might be some mighty clever big men, but when I consider Hammon, the lord Sheriff’s man-at-arms who is built like a pillar in the cathedral church, and not an awful lot more intelligent than your horse over there, I am inclined to wonder. Add to that what we know of the man who commands this gang; he is not the charitable and forgiving sort. Losing their shelter, and the ensuing risk of discovery would have been inevitable by the time this man was shut inside to die. How do you imagine the leader reacted to finding his rest disturbed, his plans disrupted?’
‘Fair enough,’ Bradecote agreed. ‘He would have been angry enough to shut the man within, and the others would not have risked their lives going in to save him. Not a man to cross, is he.’
‘Not unless you have a sword in your hand and he doesn’t, and even then you’d need to be fast, I would guess.’
‘Do I detect admiration in your tone, Serjeant Catchpoll?’ Bradecote feigned shock.
‘Not admiration as such, my lord. He’s an evil-minded bastard, no doubt about it, and I’ll be the first to raise a cheer when we see him wriggle at the end of a rope, for he has caused us a tidy amount of trouble and worry, but I’d have to say he has qualities about him, a crafty mind, and a clear sense of purpose. Now if a man like that was on your side in a fight, you’d be offering up prayers of rejoicing, don’t tell me you wouldn’t.’
Bradecote, who considered the term ‘a tidy amount of trouble and worry’ a massive understatement, was forced to admit this was true, but frowned nonetheless.
‘He kills without compunction, though, as if swatting flies. In fact, he would pull their wings off first. You say this deed was done in anger, but it is of one with his acts of cruelty. I find such men hard to comprehend and impossible to like.’
‘Now, I didn’t say I like him, not that it would matter if I did. The law is the law and he has no time for it. When we get to him, he is going to find out that it does have the time for him, long enough to arraign him, try him, and hang him.’
‘Which brings us to our main problem.’ Bradecote’s frown deepened, and his voice suddenly wearied. The confidence with which he had begun the morning had disappeared entirely. ‘We don’t know where he is, is order for us to catch him. They obviously left before it snowed, so we have no trail to follow, no trail at all. They might well have crossed the Leigh brook, or gone the route over the Teme to the north.’
‘I still doubt that one, my lord. It would be just too far, and they would have not wanted to travel across unknown terrain. No, my best guess is that they headed back towards Powick, to the barn at Bransford, or the villagers’ barn in Powick.’
In the chill darkness, the ill-assorted party had made its way back towards Leigh. Shock, the cold, and the aftermath of the adrenalin rush of escaping a fiery death made teeth chatter, but nobody spoke. It had begun to snow; flakes that the wind drove into faces and settled upon cloaks and turned the group into ‘ghosts’ in the night. Guy moved from the rear to ride beside Reynald.
‘Where do we make for now? We cannot keep going all night and tomorrow also, not in this. This snow conceals all behind us now, but if we take shelter, any tracks as we leave will be too deep to be covered quickly.’
‘You only just thought of this, my friend?’ Reynald grinned, though his hood hid his expression. ‘We return to where we know there is shelter, to Bransford. It is not too hard to find in the dark and this white blanket.’
‘Our pursuers will have looked there. It was an obvious place.’
‘Oh yes, and found we had departed many hours since. And yes, they will come to the same logical conclusion we have, once they are told of Pigface’s little pyre.’
‘Then I am not sure—’
‘No, Guy, that is why I command and you follow. You are clever, but not clever enough. You see, Bransford has people, and people, so often an inconvenience, can be used.’
‘Your plan, my lord, is to take the village hostage?’ Guy was confused.
‘The cold has got to your brain, assuredly. No, that would be too large a company to control with the men we have. We take a house, and we hold hostages, or rather you do. The head of the family, and I do so hope we do not just find some old crone on her own at our first knocking, we take to the barn and keep. With his loved ones held he will do as I say, act out the charade I demand. Meanwhile, you, I am afraid, will have to spend the rest of the night with the peasants, though you might actually be warmer. We keep your mount so you have a snowy trudge to the bridge at dawn. Your tracks from the dwelling will be one man on foot, as anyone would expect. How you disguise
yourself is up to you, of course. You go to Powick, then you watch the bridge. If de Beauchamp comes, it will be by just after noon at the latest. If he brings our man, make sure you let him linger alone, and only then bring him back here. I trust you not to be followed. You return to the bosom of your new “family” and wait until dark before coming to the barn.’
Guy assimilated this information, amazed at the speed with which Reynald could concoct such a plan in the middle of the night and in a snowstorm, as if he sat before his hearth with a goblet of wine and hours to pass in idle contemplation. It was certainly sound enough. He nodded, for there was nothing more to be said.
By the time they reached Bransford, few cared what befell them, captive or captor. Reynald sent the hostages and three men into the barn, and took the rest on to the first dwelling that loomed out of the whiteness.
‘You know, this is our friend who was so generous with his wood the other day. He also has a clamp of turnips, I see. Mauger,’ he turned and called Mauger forward with a low growl, ‘take what we can carry for a day or two, no more. Oh, how I will be glad to stop living like a serf. Good food, good wine, a woman − hmmm I could enjoy an English winter from within my own thick walls.’
With which happy image, he dismounted, and indicated his men were to follow suit. They did not of course knock on the door, but just entered. The door was not barred within, for why should anyone want to steal from a man who had almost nothing. In the total darkness Reynald worked by smell, turning to the left to where the family lived and slept, not to the right where the sow resided. It took but to grab something that lived and squirmed, and to threaten death for silence to replace alarm. There was a demand for light, a scraping of flint, a spark, and a sliver of flame from a rush light, just enough, when Guy shone it round, to discern a man, a woman, and five children, from a lad who awaited puberty down to a crawling infant. The woman’s swollen belly indicated a sixth on the way. Reynald smiled. It was so easy.
‘We,’ he announced, ‘are poor, cold travellers seeking shelter. Now, we can see you good people have not room here to accommodate us, so we are going to the tithe barn for the night. However, we might get lonely in the dark, so you, my friend,’ he pointed at the father, ‘are coming with us, and in the morning will do as we say, since Guy here is staying in your place here, to “look after” your family.’ The voice was silkily persuasive, and yet very unpleasant. ‘If you do not choose to accede to our very reasonable request,’ and here he drew a knife that glinted in the light, and pulled the woman to him, resting the blade against the taut roundness of her pregnancy, ‘you will see your next child rather earlier than you expected.’
The man nodded, whispered he would be glad to help, and was pushed outside. A small child grizzled, confused and afraid, and the mother tried to whisper comfort that she herself needed. As Reynald walked out, he spoke softly to Guy.
‘You have your orders. Do nothing final, for we may yet have need of them tomorrow night also, if the weather deteriorates further. I am tired of wandering about in the snow to no good purpose. When they are of no further use …’ He shrugged, and did not see the frown between Guy’s brows.
Chapter Thirteen
Walkelin took men-at-arms with him to the first places of concealment, but left them loitering before he reached Widow Thatcher’s dwelling. If he needed them to help carry what he found, if he found it, all well and good, but he did not want to worry the old woman more than was necessary. He knocked upon her door, firmly but not insistently, and there was no response. A woman shaking a blanket in front of the building next door shook her head.
‘Mother Thatcher won’t hear that. Who are you, and what business have you with her?’
The woman sounded protective rather than nosey.
‘I am the lord Sheriff’s man. The Widow Thatcher has done nothing wrong, but we think there are stolen items hidden beneath her henhouse.’
The woman eyed him suspiciously, but clearly decided he spoke the truth. She nodded.
‘Well, you follow me, then.’ She opened the door and entered the gloom. On such a winter’s day many folk would already have a rush light at least, but this dwelling was in nothing more than half-light.
‘No point in lights for her, poor dame. She would as like knock one over and burn us all in our beds,’ explained the neighbour, who then shouted, ‘Mother, ’tis Estrith.’
A frail voice answered her, bidding her come close. They advanced in the gloom, Walkelin barking his shins on a low chest and earning a word of reproach for his clumsiness. The old woman sat wrapped in all she possessed to keep warm.
‘Have you brought my supper, girl?’
The voice tried to be imperious but was more in need of reassurance.
‘Not yet, Mother. The broth is bubbling away nicely, though. I have here a man from the lord Sheriff as says he must look under your henhouse, for something hid.’
‘What? He wants my hens? They’re mine, I tell you.’
‘No, Mother, your hens are yours, we know. It seems your neighbour, Geoffrey, hid something under their coop,’ bellowed Walkelin, trying to be loud but unthreatening.
‘Oh him,’ grunted the neighbour, hunching a shoulder. ‘Should’ve guessed it would be to do with him.’
‘Geoffrey is hiding under my henhouse?’ The voice was querulous and confused.
‘Look, you go and do what you must, Sheriff’s man, and let me settle her. No point worrying her more than needs be.’
The neighbour almost shooed him out the back. The little yard had a distinct odour of chicken excrement, and Walkelin could already imagine his mother’s reaction when he got home. The chickens were settling, perching close together ready for the long, winter’s night, their feathers fluffed up against the cold. They objected noisily and with much flapping to Walkelin’s arrival as he poked his head within. Picking a feather from his mouth he looked at the floor of the henhouse. He judged it some two feet from the ground, yet on the outside it looked barely more than a foot. Well, a blind old woman would not query why it was built oddly. He scrabbled about in the thin straw, swearing as his hands made contact with something soft and wet, but then found an edge with his fingertips. Amidst much clucking, he lifted the hatch to the void below and felt inside with his hand, which came upon something hard and wrapped in cloth. He sighed in relief. The ‘brown’ man had not beaten him to it. Fumbling, he lifted the sack, which must once have contained flour. Now it was as heavy but more lumpy. One-handed lifting it was a strain, but he dragged it out and placed it upon the ground. Then he rummaged around again. By the end he had four bags. Geoffrey must have secreted it in several trips. Walkelin shut the henhouse and took a long breath of slightly less foetid air and gathered up the bags in his arms. It was as much as he could do to carry them without dropping one, and he feared spilling the contents for all to see. Indoors he called out gently, and the neighbour came to him.
‘My, what have you there?’
‘Things that should not be under the Widow’s henhouse, for sure. Would you shut the back door, my arms are full, and the front door also, after me?’
‘Yes. There’s nothing against Mother Thatcher, surely?’
‘No, nothing. She need never even be told if you do not think it can be explained.’
‘That might be best.’
‘Thank you. I hope you settled her. I am sorry if she was confused.’
‘Well, I think so. I doubt she’ll last the winter, frail as she is, but she helped me when I was but a bride, and I reckon as it is least I can do to help her now. Now, off with you afore nosey folk ask what it is has been found and cause trouble.’
Thus sent about his business, Walkelin whistled up the men-at-arms, and they carried their treasure back to the castle, the men-at-arms standing downwind of Walkelin whenever possible.
The knowledge that Geoffrey’s forging materials were in his own hands pleased William de Beauchamp, since he could tell the representatives of the burgesses that there w
as no longer a threat from the man or his false dies, which might possibly have found their way into unsafe hands. However, the agitation of the good burgesses of Worcester was no longer his prime concern, and in the hunt for Archbishop Theobald’s friend and envoy he had made little progress. The sheriff, without any great hope of anything revelatory, took Walkelin with him to Stoulton, a few miles from Worcester, to find out what he could about the errant Mauger, wheelwright’s son and sheep-stealer. The manor was one of de Beauchamp’s own holdings, and so they went first to the village reeve, to find out what they could about the local wheelwright. The first thing they discovered was that the old wheelwright had been dead some years past, and the business had passed to a nephew. The name of Mauger produced a look of distaste, and a shaking of the head. He had been, said the reeve, a bad lot almost since the day he entered the world, and the village was a happier − and safer − place since his ignominious departure eight years previously.
They found the wheelwright’s, now worked by the cousin of Mauger, who was initially reticent about his reprobate relative.
‘He’s been gone a good many years, and good riddance, says I. You won’t find any with a good word for him hereabouts. He brought shame on the whole village, and bad blood with our neighbours, whose sheep he stole, and it killed his poor mother as good as if he smote her with an axe.’
‘But it has done you no harm, if you now have the business, Wheelwright. Was his father already dead?’
Hostage to Fortune Page 14
