‘I cut his throat,’ he said, truthfully.
Chapter Sixteen
Hugh Bradecote stared upwards into the darkness. Sleep had claimed him whilst his body demanded it, but long before dawn he was awake, tossing in a nightmare from which he could not awaken. He had failed. He had failed William de Beauchamp, who had expected him to keep up the hunt, and capture the kidnappers whilst saving the precious hostage. Perhaps the sheriff had thought Christina important too, but he had not been specific. Well today he would head back to report that he had achieved nothing; the trail was as cold as the snowy ground, and he had no more idea where the kidnappers were than de Beauchamp himself. The sheriff would probably dismiss him ignominiously, and he really did not care. Failing his overlord was as nothing to failing her, his betrothed, his Christina. Each night, with his prayers, he had told her that he was coming, that he would find her, though only in his dreams did she hear him. Well, last night he could not say that; last night he could say nothing, for ‘sorry’ was too inadequate a word when he had lost her. He had failed to do what he had sworn to do, find her, save her, protect her from harm. Now she was lost, at the mercy of a man whose barbarity had been proven over and again, a cruel bastard who would think nothing of—Bradecote dug his nails into his palms. She deserved so much care, and he had proved dismally unworthy. He would go back to his manor, where baby Gilbert’s infant gurgles would accuse him of depriving him of a mother to love him. And it was true. He covered his face with his hands, and in the blackness, both physical and mental, he wept silently.
It was a pensive-looking Serjeant Catchpoll who met him when they rose. Bradecote eschewed food, though he had barely touched the venison stew last night, and sat staring into the beaker of small beer as if it was as deep as the sea. Catchpoll had seen the sea a couple of times, down beyond Gloucester, in the grey-flecked, wintry Severn Estuary, and did not think much to it. Last night Bradecote had been a beaten man, and Catchpoll could understand it as a fleeting emotion. He was more concerned that it remained with the new day. For his own part he saw the situation as bad, yes, and would rather not have to face de Beauchamp’s wrath when they returned empty-handed, but if the Severn had been frozen he would still lay odds on the kidnappers trying for another meeting. Whoever led them had put a lot of time and effort chasing about the shire, trying to get Geoffrey the Forger freed, and to give up now seemed, somehow, out of character. If he had, then Catchpoll expected to find a trail of bodies left for them to find, but best not tell the undersheriff that.
He watched him, and feared he had failed the sheriff twofold. He had said he would try and keep the undersheriff from crumbling under the strain, and it looked as if he had not just crumbled, but cracked. Grief, self-loathing, they could do that to a man, and pity it was they looked like ruining Hugh Bradecote.
‘We had best be off, my lord,’ said Catchpoll, touching his arm.
‘Where? Back to tell the lord Sheriff I failed?’ Bradecote’s voice was listless.
‘Not directly, no. Yesterday we lost ’em, and it was a blow, but in all truth, my lord, they cannot be that far away, and the river could not be crossed yesterday so they are still this side of Severn as we speak. Sitting here, gazing at nothing, achieves nothing. Doing nothing is failing. Acting is still working on the problem, so shift your lordly arse before I kick the bench from under you, and let’s be about our duty.’
Catchpoll’s tone and language were intentionally brusque, offensive. There was no point letting the man wallow, offering sympathy, for sympathy would do no good. Only action would help him, and only success, please God, would cure him. Normally, Hugh Bradecote would have reacted sharply, but he simply did as he was bid, in silence.
With Catchpoll in command, the sheriff’s men trotted out from Malvern for the final time, Prior John watching the retreating figures with a frowning countenance, and a head full of prayer.
They headed towards Powick, Catchpoll working on the principle that if the kidnappers were not south of the Teme then they were not far to the north. There had been little sign of snow overnight, but the cold had made what lay icier and crunchy beneath the horses’ hooves. In places it was clear enough to jog along, and in others they had to revert to walking pace.
They came once again to Bransford, and, out of habit, enquired of a woman carrying a pail to the midden if she had seen anything unusual.
‘You’ll be the lord Sheriff’s men, then. Master Reeve, he’s been going round like a chicken with its head off, and wondering how to find you.’ The woman shook her head. ‘A bad business, and for Godwin too, with his wife in her condition.’
With which cryptic comment, the woman tossed the contents of the pail onto the midden and turned to retrace her steps. Catchpoll looked at Bradecote, who was frowning, and raised an eyebrow.
‘Perhaps Malvern Priory’s prayers are heard in heaven,’ he muttered, and turned his horse’s head. ‘Where is the reeve now?’ he called after the woman.
‘Up at the monks’ barn, of course,’ she replied, not turning round.
Bradecote touched spur to horse’s flank, though more from instinct than it getting him to the barn faster. Catchpoll kept pace, thinking how best to deal with things if there was a woman’s body involved, and the men-at-arms followed behind. Knowing the kidnappers had used the tithe barn before, they headed naturally to it rather than the newer structure.
The village reeve was pacing up and down, wringing his hands like a nervous father awaiting the cry of a newborn babe. He looked up at the sound of horses, momentarily fearful, and then flooded with relief. He had known he must do something, but had been unsure how to achieve it. He greeted them with a mixture of self-exculpation, exclamation and explanation, from which Catchpoll managed to gather there was a corpse in the barn, and then heard Bradecote’s hiss of relief as it became clear the body was of a religious. The reeve let them into the barn, watched by the more curious villagers, some of whom already feared their spring would be cursed, tainted by the unnatural death of a holy brother among them.
Their eyes adjusted from the silvered brightness outside to the dimness within. Bradecote gave up silent thanks, for the body did not look as if it had been moved. They approached, the smell of death present even in the chill, and overlaid with the lingering odour of infection from the stump. The reeve stood a few feet from the corpse, but the sheriff’s men came to stand either side of the mortal remains of Brother Augustine.
‘Hello, Brother, we meet again,’ murmured Catchpoll, kneeling down and surveying the bloodied head where the ear had been hacked off.
‘Again? You knew …’ Bradecote was not really thinking any more, his mind a numb void.
‘Well, we’ve met a part of him, for sure. He was the owner of the hand. That stump was far from fresh, and the infected wound probably killed him.’ His tone was matter of fact. ‘They took the ear afterwards; there is very little blood, considering.’ Catchpoll grinned his death’s head grin, which the reeve thankfully did not see. ‘Looks like the lord Sheriff will be receiving another body part to add to his collection.’
The serjeant chuckled, and this time the reeve gasped at the irreverence in the face of untimely death. Catchpoll ignored him, intent upon learning all that the dead could tell him.
‘Then if he has sent …’ Hugh Bradecote who had been trying not to get overexcited from the mere fact that the only corpse present was that of the monk, could not keep the hope from his voice now.
‘Oh yes, my lord, this is not yet over.’
Bradecote let the feeling flood through him for a moment, a rejuvenation so complete, the reeve started at the undersheriff’s clipped question.
‘When exactly was he found, Master Reeve?’ Bradecote asked as Catchpoll, whose discerning nose seemed unaffected by proximity to the body, peered closely at it.
‘My lord, it was reported to me by Godwin, one of our cottagers, who has been kept captive here since before dawn yesterday.’
Bradecote and
Catchpoll exchanged glances.
‘So they were here yesterday, after all,’ murmured Bradecote, his fist clenching. ‘And our lecherous villager was a ruse. The snow covering aided them, but we ought to have checked.’ He sighed, and shook his head. ‘Where is this Godwin?’
‘I left him back with his family, who, God be praised, were spared by the man meant to kill them. His wife is attending to his injuries.’
‘Is he like to die?’
Knowing what had happened before to those who fell into the path of the kidnap gang, Catchpoll was surprised the man had lived this long.
‘No, but it is a weird thing.’ The reeve sounded mystified. ‘The man, the same man who had stayed with the family, pulled a knife across his throat so that it drew blood but not deep or long so that it would take his life. He said he had to do it, but the scar was his “gift”.’
‘We need to speak to Godwin, injured or not, and to the wife perhaps also,’ remarked Bradecote.
‘I will fetch them, my lord.’
The reeve left, glad to have the excuse to get out into fresh air and light. The cold had kept all but a vague hint of the sickly, unforgettable odour of gangrene from the barn, except close to the body, but it was enough, and the disfigurement of the body disturbed the man.
‘It’ll be helpful if we speaks to him, my lord, but I should say the brother died during yesterday or last night, not within the last few hours, and not before he arrived here. The death stiffness is complete. Of course, the cold would make it linger, but there is no sign at all of it leaving him, and if he had died before they got here it might well be easing by now.’
‘I wonder they did not leave him in the burning barn, Catchpoll?’
‘True enough. He must have become a burden to them, but he was not killed here. Rather he died from the wound of days back. There was time for someone, another religious, presumably, to give him the semblance of decency, even after the disfigurement. The first brother was a sign to us, but this one, no. He was not killed as an example.’ Catchpoll was almost talking to himself by now, and paused. Then, with some force required, he lifted the remaining hand, addressing the corpse. ‘What have you here, friend?’
Catchpoll took the scrap of linen, itself stiffened slightly by the chill and the dried blood. The hair around it was dark, and long. Bradecote’s stomach clenched so hard it hurt.
‘That’s her hair,’ he whispered.
‘Aye, my lord, I’d say so. There was no report of another woman in the party, and the brothers would not possess such length.’ He looked up at his superior’s anxious face. ‘It is a good sign, my lord. She was alive yesterday, and from what I see here, this was left for us, and not by the captors.’
He removed the binding of hair, and handed it to Bradecote, who held it as if a precious relic, then peered at the linen. The blood had soaked into the material, spreading so that the marks were no longer crisp and clear. He frowned. It made no sense to him, just stains. Despondent, he handed it back to Catchpoll, who grinned.
‘Now here’s writing I understand.’
‘But you can’t …’
Catchpoll turned the cloth so that Bradecote could see the marks again.
‘I think your lady has kept her wits about her.’
Bradecote suddenly realised the significance of the colouring.
‘These marks are in … blood?’
‘I’d say so, my lord, but think. What else might she have had to hand?’
‘Sweet Jesu, she was reduced to …’ Hugh Bradecote swallowed hard. It was an unpalatable thought. ‘And these are just marks.’
‘Aye, but what are the letters you are so proud of, but marks, my lord? Once you know this is a message, you can try to read it. She wouldn’t be asking after your well-being and commenting on the weather. She would be trying to tell us what we need to know to rescue her, and that would be where they will be, not where they are or have been. Look close. There’s lines, lines for a time, a day.’
‘Perhaps.’ Bradecote was still struggling with what he held in his hand.
‘And the rest, as I “read” it, means sunset and a place. So the second sunset from today, they will be at …’ He took the scrap back from Bradecote’s unresisting grasp and pulled a ‘thinking face’. ‘Well, the first thing might be a heart, but there’s nowhere hereabouts called Heart or Hart something. The second thing is a barn. There is a roof shape and a cross. So a barn belonging to a church or churchmen. Another tithe barn, but where?’ He scratched his head.
Bradecote was trying to think clearly. It was so important that he did so, and yet he was finding it nigh on impossible. She had left a message. She knew he would be trying to find her. The message was to him, not just to the shrieval party. The revelation struck him, and he gasped, as if physically winded.
‘The monks of Evesham have a tithe barn only a mile north-east from Bradecote.’
He did not need to explain the heart. She meant him, where her heart lay, he knew it, and if Catchpoll thought it fanciful romance, he could not afford to care. Even as his pulses raced, the reeve returned with a white-faced couple, the woman heavily with child, the man with a strip of linen about his throat.
‘Godwin and his wife, my lord.’
The woman made an awkward obeisance.
‘Tell us whatever details you can about what happened to you, about the men,’ demanded Catchpoll, but gently.
‘And about the lady also. How was she?’ added Bradecote, unable to resist finding out what he could about Christina.
Godwin sighed. His mind was in a turmoil of relief and a vague idea this was all a bad dream. He repeated how they had been taken, how he had remained, convinced he would never see his family again.
‘The lady, she was the one who saw me in the wood, the day before, I swear it.’
‘In the wood?’ Bradecote repeated, frowning.
So he told them about the theft of wood, and his foraging. It fitted with what they knew.
‘And the lady, it was she who cared for the dying brother, Brother Augustine she called him. It was she also who cooked the meal, what there was of it.’
Bradecote blinked. He had not imagined her made to undertake menial tasks.
‘They made the lady FitzPayne cook and nurse?’
‘Nobody called her by that name or any other, my lord, just “the woman” or “the widow”.’
Bradecote began to wonder if she had perhaps concealed her identity, and the man’s next words confirmed his fears.
‘The man who commands, the lord, he was in foul mood last night. I do not know what was going on, what anything of this is about. He was ranting, ranting at the holy brothers, talking about killing a prelate, and then he took the lady—’
‘He what?’ Bradecote shouted so sharply the woman jumped.
‘He took her and threw her on the ground, and told the monks he would show them what they were missing, how a woman filled in time when a man was bored …’ Godwin faltered at the look on the undersheriff’s face.
‘Go on,’ whispered Bradecote, hoarsely.
‘He wrenched at her gown, sat astride of her, but she said something, something very quietly, and he paused, and then the sick brother sat up, wide-eyed and wild. I think we all thought him dead already, and it was a ghost. He shouted something about sin and death, then fell back, and the lord stood up, pulling the lady with him. He hit her across the face and turned away swearing. I did not understand any of it.’
Bradecote swallowed hard, fought his rapid breathing. Catchpoll judged it best to move on.
‘And this morning? What about the man with your wife, the one who cut you? What was he like?’
‘For all the wickedness, he did no harm to me or the children,’ murmured the woman. ‘Indeed, yesterday he went out and collected wood, though we had some left, and managed to kill a duck upon the river ice and brought it home for us. We ate well, and sorry I am there is none left for my husband, bar the carcass I left boiling at home. This
morning he said his lord wanted us dead, so there would be none to speak about him, but he would not murder us in cold blood. We had to stay indoors and keep quiet and not go to the barn or anything, in case we were seen. I was mortal afraid, but kept the children quiet, and did as he said. He was a man who spoke lordly, at least fluent to the man who threatened me with his knife the night before, the leader, and it was better than his English. He was not well dressed, his clothes were worn, but his boots were good, and he had a close brown beard.’
‘So they were here, and departed but this morning.’ Bradecote had mastered himself, at last. ‘That means we know where they will be tomorrow night.’ He spoke almost to himself. ‘And we just have to get to the tithe barn.’
‘Not wishing to throw a caltrop in the way of this idea, my lord, but you have not considered the Severn.’
‘What?’
‘The ear of the brother has been removed, so they are clearly sending a message to the lord Sheriff,’ Catchpoll could not repress a smile, ‘and I would love to see his face when he receives it. They have to allow him time to get it and the messenger to rejoin them, hence tomorrow night. The actual meeting might be for the next day. The river is frozen solid, but we do not know if it is solid enough for a man to cross, let alone a horse, and nor do they. So they will have headed north to cross where it is not quite so wide, and not where they are going to be in view.’
‘We are therefore closer yet further away, Catchpoll, if we have also to go north.’
‘Aye, my lord, and we wants to get there in advance of the kidnappers, so we catches them afore they gets within the barn itself. Once there, like rats in a hole, it would be far more dangerous for the hostages.’ Catchpoll then coughed. ‘And you would have to accept, my lord, that if the Severn ain’t crossable the meeting cannot happen, and even if it can be done, that when the lord Sheriff gets the message, he will not be a patient man. He will want an end to this, one way,’ − he paused − ‘or another.’
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