Marked to Die

by Sarah Hawkswood

  ‘Did you not send to the lady FitzPayne?’

  ‘I … er … did afterwards. There was so much going on, with townsfolk all a-dither, and trying to prevent them setting out with a party of men with sticks and bows to find whoever did it, as if they would find them waiting …’

  ‘You were glad to have one corpse and its attendant responsibilities taken from you.’

  Bradecote was not totally unsympathetic, but felt that the reeve had a duty to inform the lord’s widow, and it told in his tone.

  ‘My lord, I am sorry for the omission, truly. I did send to the earl’s representative in Worcester, as I said before, and when I did go to her, in person, she was unable to see me, being abed and ailing. I was told she lost the child she was carrying, though it is but what I heard from a wench.’

  The undersheriff frowned.

  ‘Did you take note of the injuries that killed these men?’ Catchpoll wanted answers not explanations. ‘And do not tell me they were arrow wounds, for we know that.’

  ‘But they were.’

  ‘Serjeant Catchpoll means what manner of arrow wound, Master Reeve.’

  ‘Thorold must have died quick, for the wound was through his throat. Edwin, now I think there was the entry here,’ he pointed to his chest, a little to the left of the breast bone, ‘yes, right over the heart, and the lord was struck just below the ribs, here,’ he moved his finger to his solar plexus.

  ‘And the men killed on the way to Bordesley?’

  ‘They were brought slung across a pair of ponies and the shafts removed, so I did not see really.’

  ‘Not see a wound in bare skin?’

  Bradecote sounded disbelieving.

  ‘Oh they were not stripped, my lord.’

  ‘Were they not? Was their garb tattered and not worth stealing?’

  ‘Well, if I was a beggar yes, a burgess, no.’ The reeve pondered. ‘One had a shoe missing, that was all.’

  ‘Either our thieves were warm enough or they thought they might be disturbed again.’

  ‘Not sure that fits, my lord.’ Catchpoll shook his head. ‘If one of their number is so fine an archer, why not bring down any witness as they did with Corbin FitzPayne.’

  ‘They thought they heard hoof beats?’ Bradecote turned back to Walter Reeve. ‘Were the bodies cold when they got here, and how many men accompanied them here?’

  ‘I could not say as to warmth, my lord, I did not handle them. You could ask the brother of Oswin, who took his body for burial, or Father William who took charge of Ansketel, who had no kin living. And there were three men brought them here, travellers from the north. They were directed here from where they found the bodies, upon the Old Road up on the Lickey Hills.’

  ‘Heading where?’ Bradecote pressed further.

  Catchpoll almost pounced on the words, like a cat by a mouse hole.

  ‘I did not ask. What reason had I to ask?’

  Catchpoll’s look said enough.

  ‘Direct us, then, to the priest and this brother, when we have finished eating.’

  The reeve, thankful that he would be left in peace, almost chivvied his wife to refill the tankards of ale accompanying the food, and even pressed ale and a crust upon Walkelin when he appeared, shaking his head silently at Catchpoll in answer to a raised eyebrow. The crust was devoured swiftly.

  As they left, Catchpoll wondered casually whether Walkelin’s mother secretly starved her son. Walkelin grinned.

  ‘So there was nothing to be learnt from William Tanner.’

  ‘No, Serjeant, though I did as I have learnt. I asked him the same sort of questions, and he gave the same sort of answers, but not in such a way as I would think he and his son had planned their replies.’

  ‘Good lad.’ Catchpoll looked almost paternal, and patted Walkelin on the shoulder. ‘We are now off to see the priest who took charge of one of the bodies returned from the Bordesley cart, to see if he recalls the wound, and then on the same task to the other victim’s brother.’

  ‘Well, at least a church won’t smell foul. I could barely eat afterwards.’

  ‘But you managed, somehow.’ Catchpoll hid his grin.

  The priest shook his head over the evils of man, and the mark of Cain, but frowned over the arrow wound.

  ‘There was not much blood, I can say that, and what there was was upon his chest. I did not shroud him. Goodwyf Fletcher did that. She cleans the church, and is a godly soul. She knew Ansketel in her youth, I believe.’ He saw Catchpoll’s raised eyebrow and coloured. ‘Not in the Biblical sense, no no. Her first husband and he worked together in the same salt house. Shall I call her, my lord?’

  Bradecote nodded, and the priest trotted from his little dwelling to call the widow from her sweeping of the chancel. She returned in his wake, bobbing to the undersheriff and Catchpoll, and bestowing a motherly, if gap-toothed, smile upon Walkelin. The priest told her what the sheriff’s officers needed to know, and her face grew solemn. She crossed herself.

  ‘Wickedness, such wickedness. A comely man was Ansketel in his youth, before he took to too much ale, but that was after the flux took his wife, poor man, and her not nineteen. Never married again, he didn’t. But what a way to end, I ask you.’

  ‘Well, we are really asking you, Goodwyf Fletcher, about the manner of his end, and from your name you might have a better idea than most about arrows.’

  Bradecote flashed her his best smile, and she simpered and blushed without thinking.

  ‘Ah, but my Godric fletched ’em, my lord, not killed with ’em like this man did. The arrow was pulled out, but you could see it had not been a hunting arrow, no barbs. The archer used a bodkin, a man-killer, not for game. I mean both would do, of course, but the archer carried arrows best suited for taking down a man, not a deer or a pigeon. The wound was a clean hole and to the heart, as I reckon it.’ She sighed. ‘Leastways it was quick, poor soul.’

  Bradecote thanked her, and the priest also, and they left to find the brother of Oswin, whose name was Azor. Bradecote thoughtfully conducted the interview outside, where mother and sisters were not therefore forced to hear the grim details over again, but it was a short and simple conversation, which corroborated everything they had heard about the skill and intent of the archer. The sheriff’s men came away in no doubt that the same man killed all five who had been slain.

  The obvious place to go next was the manor at Cookhill, and to see the lady FitzPayne. They set out along the same road that the ill-fated packmen had taken towards Alcester. It was a good road, an old road, straight as so many of those were that the Romans had made long, long ago. They paused again at the site.

  ‘All the victims were shot from the front. Pity we could not see if there was an angle or we might know roughly where the archer concealed himself.’

  ‘And you have to remember, my lord,’ Catchpoll sniffed, almost as if the memory of the archer’s scent might linger, ‘that there were probably several accomplices to help with the bodies and also lead the ponies away.’

  ‘Why,’ mused Walkelin, half to himself, ‘does a man who could earn a tidy sum with good archery skills, and who has presumably taken down men before, perhaps in battle, take up murder and robbery upon the King’s roads?’

  ‘A fair question, that,’ noted Catchpoll approvingly. ‘Might have committed some other crime and been outlawed for it, but I know of none close by Worcester who were archers by craft. Mind, he could be a stranger to the shire, taking advantage of not being known.’

  Hugh Bradecote stared into the foliage of the bushes, imagining the man who had stood there.

  ‘If Walkelin is right, and he has seen service, well a lordless man might turn to crime to eat, and from taking conies and roebuck might be content enough to kill men again if he fell in with thieves. But there,’ he shook off contemplation, ‘let us go and speak to FitzPayne’s widow.’

  Chapter Three

  It was mid afternoon when the trio trotted into the bailey of Cookhill Manor, set on a
windswept ridge, but in a good strategic position. There was a wooden palisade and outbuildings, and a hall raised above an undercroft and accessed via a flight of stone steps that abutted one end. A tired-looking man, directing the stowing of barrels, turned at their entry and greeted them politely, seeing that one was clearly some lord come to visit. When Hugh Bradecote explained who they were he showed no surprise.

  ‘We would like to speak with the lady FitzPayne, if she is not still abed and—’

  ‘My lady is confined within, my lord, but has risen from her bed. If you will wait briefly, I will tell her of your arrival.’

  The steward bowed, and climbed the steps to the hall without haste. Catchpoll watched him and murmured to his superior.

  ‘Old dog guarding his lady. Well, I suppose it is fitting.’

  The man emerged within minutes and beckoned them up, escorting them into the hall itself where a woman, of almost ghostly pallor, sat upon the lord’s seat, a seat too big for her delicate frame. The white wimple, framing her face, accentuated her bloodless cheeks, and her eyes were underscored with shadow. She nodded dismissal to the steward, who dithered and then obeyed, and half rose, slowly and with a flicker of discomfort crossing her features, to make the vestige of obeisance.

  ‘My lord Undersheriff, I regret I am not in a … condition to greet you as you deserve, and I hope you will forgive me if I remain seated.’

  ‘Indeed, my lady, I am sorry to disturb you in your loss,’ Bradecote spoke carefully, formally, and thought his words well chosen, since they covered both spouse and child, ‘but we are about the sheriff’s business, and need to speak with you to see if you can assist us in taking whoever it was who killed your lord.’

  ‘Yet you arrive nearly a week after the event. William de Beauchamp does not seem to account his vassal’s life of any great worth.’ Her tone was scathing.

  ‘He was only made aware of it yesterday, my lady,’ Serjeant Catchpoll was keen to exonerate the sheriff from blame, ‘and was mightily aggrieved to find out so tardily. You did not send word yourself.’

  ‘I would have done so had I not been so unwell. I have no doubt you have heard, I lost my lord’s child, the son he wished for so long, the child for which I also prayed.’

  Bradecote flashed Catchpoll a glance of annoyance, which was also a clear message to keep his mouth shut before he committed any more crass mistakes.

  ‘Yes, we heard of it, and understand you were not able … My lady, we cannot undo what has happened, but we will make every effort to bring your husband’s killer to justice.’

  ‘Every effort, my lord?’ Her voice was low, passion in every syllable, so strong it was almost tangible, and her eyes narrowed like those of an animal judging the distance to strike for the kill. ‘You find who did this, and you had best find him quickly if you want a hanging, because if I find him first … I swear an oath that you won’t want to string up what is left.’

  He watched, almost mesmerised by the tensing muscle in her cheek, the incandescence in her eyes.

  ‘You have a right—’

  ‘I have a duty. We cannot know how our lives will end or when, but my child did not reach the chance to breathe God’s air, and my lord was struck down upon the King’s road, in broad daylight, by a man who did not even face him in combat, and his body was dishonoured … they stole his sword, not just his horse.’

  Catchpoll wondered why the lady sounded so surprised. A good sword was worth a tidy price. Of course a thief would take it, and the boots from his feet too if he had sense. Thievery was not some honour-bound trade.

  ‘… but I too have a duty, to see the law is followed. This is the law’s domain, and in truth, there is no place for personal revenge here. If you find out anything of interest, send to us.’ Bradecote spoke calmly.

  ‘Where?’

  This rather threw the undersheriff. He had not got as far as working out where they would base themselves. She looked at him, saw the confusion, and smiled, though it was calculating rather than welcoming.

  ‘I make you an offer of hospitality, my lord, as my husband would do to the lord Sheriff or his officers.’

  She made a half obeisance as she sat, knowing it would be difficult for him to refuse. Catchpoll made a coughing, growling sound in his throat, which Bradecote chose to ignore, though he comprehended the problem.

  ‘I … well, it is kind of you to do so, my lady, but …’

  ‘You would not refuse the hospitality of Corbin FitzPayne, loyal vassal of William de Beauchamp? In his absence, I offer it as he would.’

  Bradecote cast Catchpoll a look that said he could not escape this one. Catchpoll smiled in the manner of one being offered a poisoned chalice. The undersheriff replied with formal courtesy.

  ‘Then I accept, my lady, in the spirit I would if Corbin FitzPayne had so offered. There is but myself, Serjeant Catchpoll and …’ he wondered how to describe Walkelin, ‘a man-at-arms.’

  Catchpoll’s approval was almost audible. No need to let the lady know Walkelin was more than a hanger-on. That way he could be used to ferret. Catchpoll permitted himself a small, secret smile; Walkelin the red ferret might be very useful.

  ‘There will be accommodation for the man-at-arms with ours. I will make arrangements for you to have a palliasse within the hall and …’ She looked a little uncertain as to the position of Serjeant Catchpoll.

  ‘I would be happiest among my own sort, my lady. If your steward will find me somewheres.’

  ‘Of course.’ She nodded graciously.

  ‘So we work from here.’ Catchpoll did not sound delighted. ‘Would have been as well to go back to Worcester tomorrow, since it is a mite closer to Wich.’

  ‘Sorry, but she caught me on that one, and we have more work to the north of Wich this next day or two.’ Bradecote shrugged.

  Walkelin looked at his superiors and frowned in perplexity.

  ‘But, surely, this is a good place to be? Did you smell the pottage in the kitchens? Nearly as good as Mother’s.’

  ‘If you thought with what brains God gave you and not your rumbling gut, you would see we are not well placed. We are, in effect, living with a suspect.’

  ‘You think that she … no, she’s real in her grief, surely?’

  ‘Seems real, but how much is for the lost babe, eh, Walkelin?’ Catchpoll’s eyes glinted with cunning thought. ‘And that same lost child, was it Corbin FitzPayne’s? She is a second wife, I would guess, but the heir is his brother, not a son of his loins. So if Corbin’s arrows could not strike the target, whose did? And if Corbin puts two and two together when his wife grows sickly and her belly starts to swell, he would not be a happy man. Seems a good motive for murder to me.’

  ‘So why the second theft of the salt wagons, with the same kind of deaths?’

  ‘That, young Walkelin, is called being clever, and throwing sand, or in this case, salt, in the eyes of your pursuer.’

  ‘So she doesn’t really want to catch the archer because he is her lover?’

  Walkelin’s thought processes were logical if not always swift.

  Bradecote was pondering, almost to himself.

  ‘I doubt the archer is her lover, just a minion. She might, even if she and some mystery lover employed him to kill her husband, prefer to find him first and silence him, and being the outraged widow,’ he sighed, ‘looks good.’

  Catchpoll gave his superior a calculating look. Bradecote had shown a predilection for strong-minded women before, and this one was not barred to him by being a Bride of Christ, nor by him being married, and many men would have ignored the latter.

  ‘Don’t worry,’ Bradecote caught the look and smiled, ‘I am not going to be moonstruck over a pretty widow.’ Yet in his head was the realisation that she was pretty, even pale and hag-ridden, more than pretty.

  The evening meal was not marked by conviviality, but then Bradecote had hardly expected it. The lady herself ate so sparingly that he felt as if he were a glutton, even though he partook
of less than normal, and little was said while the servants were in attendance. When the meal was over, Christina FitzPayne indicated she would leave him and retire, but he detained her. He wanted to know more about her husband, and in the course of that, about her.

  ‘I am sorry if it is painful to think of this, my lady, but the more we know, the better our chances of finding the killer.’

  ‘But my husband was murdered simply for coming to the aid of men being attacked. That was what I was told.’

  ‘It is likely, yes, but we would wish to know if he was in dispute with any man, or had enemies. I met your lord on several occasions, but would not say I knew him. Describe him to me, as a person.’

  She frowned, not in displeasure but concentration, and the thought struck him that Corbin FitzPayne was already fading in her memory. He understood that, the balm and guilt combined.

  ‘He was a fair man, and I would say, by the standards of men, a good one. He did not cheat anyone of his dues that I know of, he was a benefactor of Bordesley and genuine in his faith, he was courageous in combat … he was at Lincoln, on foot among the other lords, but was thankfully not taken, and after … well, since William de Beauchamp has turned to the Empress I think Corbin chose to be non-committal, though his heart was with the King. He was not a humorous man, rarely laughed, but was not foul-tempered, simply quiet. As a husband I could not fault him.’

  ‘Forgive me, but you speak respectfully, but not with deep affection, not with …’

  ‘Love?’ She spoke the word sneeringly, as if it were a cheap trick. ‘I was more than content to be quietly fond of him. What cause could I have to ever love a man, knowing them for what they are?’

  Bradecote was confused, and it showed.

  ‘Ah, I see your knowledge of me is limited. As you have no doubt guessed, having met him, I was not Corbin’s first wife. There was nigh on twenty-five years between us. But then, nor was he my first husband. I, my lord Bradecote, had the misfortune to first be the wife of Arnulf de Malfleur.’ She paused, noting the surprise upon his face, but also what she recognised as pity. Malfleur had had a nasty reputation in a time when strength was admired. He was not just strong but sadistic, with tales of cruel violence upon any who displeased him. She continued, her voice very quiet. ‘He took me to wife when I was twelve, my lord, and I mean “took”, though I was not then able to fulfil the duty of bringing forth his whelps and he knew it.’