Marked to Die

by Sarah Hawkswood

‘Damn the woman.’

  ‘Possibly, my lord. But at least we know now. A good animal must have found a home somewhere. Too good not to sell and make money.’

  ‘But the thief would have to be careful. How many ordinary men would have a fine horse to sell?’

  ‘Not many, to be sure, but there are those who would not question it if it was at the right price.’ Catchpoll chewed his lip, ruminatively. ‘I know a few less fussy sorts as would buy a horse on the sly.’

  ‘You know a very disreputable collection of Worcestershire folk, Catchpoll.’ The undersheriff’s expression lightened.

  ‘I do indeed, my lord.’ Catchpoll grinned, clearly proud of this fact. ‘Takes a time to er, cultivate, but comes in useful.’

  ‘Well, see what else you can find out about that horse’s saddlery and yes, whether FitzPayne’s sword had any marks to it we could recognise. I doubt the lady will be either in a condition or mood to play hostess, so I expect a very uninteresting evening.’

  They parted, Catchpoll to ale and a pottage with dumplings, and Bradecote to a cheerless repast in a dead man’s hall.

  Chapter Five

  Baldwin de Malfleur lounged with his booted feet upon a stool, and a cup of good wine in his hand. He stared into the flames of the brazier, and from a distance it might have been thought that he scowled, but closer scrutiny would have revealed a thin smile. He savoured the wine, and the smile broadened as a thought hit him.

  ‘Ah, Arnulf, my oh-so-renowned brother, I may linger in your shadow now, but the day will come when you are just another forgotten harsh lord, and it will be my name that is remembered in this shire, for fate has provided me with an opportunity not to be missed.’ He laughed. ‘Just think, a Malfleur famed for his good works! And it will pay my men too. But the jest gets better, brother Arnulf, for by chance a victim of these crimes turns out to be the man who replaced you with the fair Christina, the Christina you described in such fulsome detail when you knew I could not have her, the Christina who told you of that one kiss I stole, so you packed me off to die, as you hoped, in some desert wadi. I wonder if she loved him? I hope she did, for it would make it so much the sweeter.’

  A servant approached diffidently. You never quite knew where you were with Baldwin de Malfleur, especially if the wine had flowed, and it was not just with his tongue that he might lash out.

  ‘My lord, the man you sent to Wich has returned. You said you wished to—’

  ‘Yes, yes, bring him in. I want to know just what is going on among the salt houses.’

  The man entered, bowing low.

  ‘So, what have you discovered for me?’

  ‘There is much nervousness, especially among the carters and packmen.’

  ‘Fool!’ de Malfleur snorted. ‘I did not need to send you there to work that out. When will my salt house have enough to send me another cartload? And are others holding back their salt or risking the flight of an arrow?’

  ‘A few are going out, my lord. The monks of Worcester have called upon their tenanted manors for “volunteers” to provide protection for their pack train, but they alone have enough holdings to do this quickly.’

  ‘Then my offer of assistance must be made swiftly. Call my scribe. The religious houses can read of what I would do for the Church, at a modest price. I will send one of my men to the reeve in Wich to pass the information to the salt houses. That will filter quickly enough to those who own them. That will be all. You may go.’

  ‘Yes, my lord.’ The man backed out, relieved.

  The Archer, having slept comfortably in a coppice, headed eastwards, crossing the shire border into Warwickshire. He was not so familiar with the country but had a good sense of direction, and knew roughly where he was heading. The empty days before the next meeting gave him plenty of time for what he wanted to do, what he needed to do. Few people saw him upon his journey, for he stepped aside long before they came into view, and those that did paid scant attention, except for the child who saw the darkly hooded man with the bow, and thereafter woke with nightmares.

  It was perhaps twenty miles from Bromsgrove to the Priory of St Leonard’s at Wroxall. The bells in the church tower, where the stonework was still new and unweathered, guided him the last mile as they rang for Vespers. He arrived as any other traveller, was greeted as such by the sister in charge of the small hall reserved for guests, and bidden eat and then attend Compline. At heart he would have liked to have done what was needed and left without fuss, but only by speech could he convey what must be known. He watched the prioress lead the sisters to their places in the Choir. It was not easy to tell much about the woman beneath the black habit, but her posture was erect and upright, and her step firm, so he judged her neither elderly nor infirm. Not that it gave him much to go upon; the elderly were sometimes far more needle-witted than those in their prime. He would sleep upon it and seek an audience after Chapter.

  The Sister Hospitaller was surprised to be asked by the quiet man for an interview with the Mother Prioress, but saw nothing about him to concern her. He explained the bow, which never left his side. He was, he said, a man-at-arms returned from the Holy Land, and had a request to pass on. He was ushered into the little chamber in which Prioress Erneburga received guests.

  She sat very upright, her face perfectly serene, and inclined her head at the Archer’s respectful obeisance.

  ‘Sister Felicia tells me you have a message? For this House?’

  ‘A message, no, Reverend Mother, but the fulfilment of a wish, yes. This Priory of St Leonard’s was founded by one Hugh of these parts, yes?’

  The nun nodded.

  ‘Does he live, still?’ The Archer needed to know.

  ‘Indeed, though not in the most robust of health these days.’

  ‘Ah. Well, you see, I too was in the Holy Land, some years past, and my lord was a friend of this Hugh. He was grieved at his friend’s capture and delighted at his freeing, though in such poor health, but did not see him again. He was killed, some four years back. My lord was a good man, a fair man. I respected him and, for my skill, he respected me. He said as there was no better archer in the Christian armies.’ The Archer chuckled. ‘Never said how I compared to the Saracen archers with their funny re-curved bows, though, God rest him.’

  The nun frowned slightly, puzzled as to where this story was leading. The Archer shook his head and continued.

  ‘My lord was a godly man, and I know as how his sins are forgiven him for his deeds upon Crusade, but he was never sure of it, I think. He trusted me to bring home certain moneys he had. His squire was dead and … he knew I would not steal another’s coin. Being a lordless man, I took employment where I could, with whom I could, in the trade to which I was trained. I made my way home slowly, and over the course of time the coin was exchanged until what I have here is English silver, but it is for this House of Nuns as founded by his friend, and for the safety of his soul, for which he would have you pray. So I would have you remember in your prayers, my lord, Ivo of Clent, of the Knights Hospitaller. I added a little of my own, Reverend Mother, that you might also pray for the soul of Godwin the Hunter, my father.’

  He took the scrip, weighed with silver, and set it upon the table between them. It made a hefty clunking noise as he let it go. The prioress blinked. She had certainly not been expecting such a gift. Her astonished expression pleased the Archer. It would put any awkward questions from her mind.

  ‘Much good could be done with this, both for the fabric of this House and so that we can provide for those who come to us in direst need. God bless you for your diligence in fulfilling this task, and be assured that we will add both souls to our daily orisons.’

  She did not say that it surprised her that a man of so humble origins as she judged would cross Europe and bring home a bag of silver at his lord’s bequest, when none might have known, excepting God, for sure, if he used it for his own ends and comfort.

  The Archer bowed his head, as much to hide his reddened cheeks as in
acknowledgement of the blessing. Then he rose, made his obeisance, and withdrew. Before he left the enclave however, he went into the church and prayed for the forgiveness of a lie that he wished had been truth.

  It was not far to the manor house, but the Archer took his time, uncertain as to how he would get to speak with the lord himself. He could claim to be bringing a message perhaps, but he thought the nuns had taken falsehood for truth very easily. At the gates he hesitated, took a deep breath and entered to ask for the lord Hugh. The man-at-arms raised a sceptical brow but disappeared within the hall. When he emerged he was not followed by an ailing man of advancing years, but a young man in his twenties with all the arrogance of a cock on a dunghill, thought the Archer, smiling to himself. He schooled his features into respectful deference as the young man drew close.

  ‘You wished for speech with me?’

  The voice was proud, but the Archer had heard enough lordlings in his time to hear that this was a man trying hard to demand respect rather than earn it.

  ‘My lord, I requested the chance to speak with the lord Hugh, who served in the Holy Land.’

  ‘Well, my father is in poor health, and I run the manor in his stead. I am Richard Noyes. Any business may be discussed with me.’

  ‘Forgive me, my lord, but it is not manor business. I wish to speak to him of the past. I served with your father, in the service of his friend Ivo of Clent, whose archer I was. I would speak of my lord, now dead.’

  The young man’s eyes narrowed. He assessed the man before him. He was certainly an archer from physique when one looked carefully. He was not a big man, but his upper body musculature was superior to any toiler of fields. He wondered, and then a slow smile spread across his face.

  ‘Archer, you say. Perhaps you are “The Archer” of whom I have heard so much, the one my father rambles about, whose arrow strikes true without fail, who struck a Saracen lord upon a battlement when all that was visible was the swathed head, and from beyond the distance any other man could reach?’

  ‘Aye, my lord. That was me.’

  ‘A lucky shot?’

  ‘No, my lord.’

  Richard Noyes inclined his head in acknowledgement.

  ‘Forgive me, of course not. Such a useful man to have in service. I believe my father was almost jealous of his friend. I fear you will find him much changed since you met him last. The imprisonment was hard upon him. We were blessed, of course, that he returned to us, and was able to resume the control of his lands, but his mind … soon began to wander.’

  The Archer had the feeling that this ‘wandering’ was just what an ambitious youth who had tasted power might like, and that his regret was far from heartfelt. In fact, there was little of the sire’s open honesty and goodwill, as he remembered it, that he could see in the son.

  ‘Yet if it is possible, my lord, I would wish to try and talk with him.’

  ‘Very well. My mother is in attendance upon my sister at her confinement, so you will find him alone. He may recall your lord. I do not know.’

  The lordling led the Archer to the solar, where a man sat gazing into space. The Archer was shocked. The man he remembered was full of life and good humour. This was a husk of humanity, the skin weathered and lined but sallow, the eyes vague.

  ‘Father, I bring you a visitor, a man who knew you in the Holy Land.’

  Richard Noyes spoke slowly and loudly. Perhaps, thought the Archer, his father was also deaf. There was no sign of response, and the son came to kneel before his father’s chair. It seemed a gesture of respect, until he reached out his arms and shook the older man, who blinked as if woken from slumber. The introduction was repeated and then the lordling got from his knees, brushed them, and turned to the Archer, as he left.

  ‘Say what you are come to say, and then leave him to his nothings.’

  There was no love in the tone, merely boredom.

  The Archer went on his knee before the man who had been his lord’s closest friend.

  ‘My lord Hugh, I am Ivo of Clent’s archer. Do you recall me? We were in the Holy Land together.’

  The huddled man stared at him uncomprehendingly, and the Archer sighed, but then it was as if a candle had been lit within, and he smiled.

  ‘Ivo’s archer, yes. You took down El Misrah upon his own battlements. I saw it done.’ The voice was dreamy.

  ‘You did, my lord.’

  ‘And Ivo?’

  ‘Ivo of Clent died four years ago, my lord.’

  ‘He is dead?’

  ‘And buried. I saw it done.’ The Archer’s expression and tone grew hard.

  The old lord frowned. ‘He fell in battle, yes?’

  ‘In battle, indeed, my lord, but the hand that slew him was not Saracen.’

  The frown deepened.

  ‘Trial by combat? It does not sound like the Ivo I knew.’

  ‘Not trial by combat. The man who killed him was supposed to be fighting by his side, but slew him.’

  ‘And lives still?’

  ‘No, my lord. He died. I would have given my lord justice, but I was wounded and then fevered. When I had my senses, he was gone. Then I heard his ship was lost.’

  ‘Justice is for the Lord. And justice was done, Archer.’

  ‘Perhaps so, my lord. I have made my way home. I have brought coin to the nuns at Wroxall, for my lord heard you had returned and fulfilled a vow. They will pray for his soul. It is what he would wish.’

  ‘I will pray for him also, and I think perhaps for you too, Archer.’

  There was an understanding. The shell of a man that sat in his hall and did not know where he was, saw far too deep into the Archer for his comfort.

  ‘I thank you for them, my lord. From us both.’

  He took the pale hand, kissed it in submission and rose.

  A few minutes later, Richard Noyes returned to the hall. His father sat as before, his hands upon his knees, staring at nothing.

  ‘Were you glad to see him again, Father?’

  The old lord turned. ‘See whom?’

  The son smiled. ‘Oh nobody of import, Father, and of no use to you.’

  Hugh Bradecote woke slowly, hearing the sounds of morning labour. A serving girl was carrying a pitcher to the solar in the half light. He lay still, mustering his thoughts, which were jumbled. He had been dreaming, he could not say for certain what, except that she had been in them, and the ‘she’ was not the serving wench. He wondered how she did today, and then the memory of her deception, or at best her determination not to aid his investigation, drove any soft thoughts from him. When she appeared, a short time later, he looked at her coolly. For her part she felt unsettled. They had parted yesterday at odds, which she regretted: she had been weak and tearful, which she despised; he had taken control without either right or permission, which angered her; and for all that, she too had dreamt. For the first time in her life there had been a man in her dreams without it being a nightmare. That of itself had stunned her. She could not say all that had happened, for dreams followed no logic, but he had been there and his presence had been protective, that much she remembered.

  ‘I give you good morning, my lord.’ She tried to sound cheerful.

  ‘Do you, my lady? Is that something you think that you can give without revealing anything of use to the law?’

  She winced at the cutting tone, and faltered, her cheeks growing pink.

  ‘My lord?’

  ‘Oh please, lady, do not come the innocent. I asked you to let me know anything that might assist me to find out who murdered your husband, and you kept from me that his horse was distinctive and likely to be important in our hunting down men who have killed a half-dozen thus far, and will probably kill again.’

  ‘You are displeased, but—’

  ‘Displeased?’ Bradecote sounded incredulous. ‘You think “displeasure” covers this?’

  ‘My lord, I have a duty—’

  ‘As have I, and I do not intend to allow you to get in the way. You seek justic
e for one death; I do so for many and within the law.’

  She looked away.

  ‘I am sorry.’

  He thought she would dab at her eyes. It was a common female recourse.

  ‘And do not think that tears will distract me.’

  At that she spun round.

  ‘Tears, my lord? For yesterday I apologise. I was shamed by my weakness.’

  He registered surprise at her words, his eyebrows rising.

  ‘I mean it, my lord.’

  It was at this point that Serjeant Catchpoll entered, instantly aware that he had arrived in the middle of an argument. He wondered what made this pair strike sparks from each other. He nodded to the lady, his face inscrutable.

  ‘Good morning, my lady, I was wishing to have speech with my lord Bradecote.’

  ‘Oh, to be sure I shall not interrupt the law, Serjeant,’ she threw at him, ‘but will rather take refuge in my solar where my presence, in mine own home, might not offend.’

  With which she flounced from the hall.

  Bradecote exchanged looks with Catchpoll.

  ‘Do not ask me what it is with women, Catchpoll; they are unfathomable.’

  ‘Well, once you accept the fact, my lord, it is easier to bear. Mind you, that one seems especially unpredictable. Got spirit, if you see what I mean.’

  ‘Spirit, yes, but as dangerous as an untamed horse.’

  Catchpoll could not repress the lascivious grin and lewd reply.

  ‘Well, a horse is always tamed once it is used to being mounted, my lord.’

  Bradecote laughed, and rubbed his unshaven chin, thus concealing the faint colour to his cheek. Trust Catchpoll to have the earthy answer.

  ‘I do not suppose you came to give me the benefit of that gem of advice, you old dog.’

  ‘No, my lord. We have a little more on just how much effort the lady has been putting in to finding that horse, though. She has had men out to Worcester and east as far as Stratford, since before we came. And FitzPayne’s sword – well, according to his men, it was “just a good, well-balanced weapon”, with nothing fancy to it.’