Marked to Die

by Sarah Hawkswood

  His aunt was aghast, at first angry, then, when she saw how he looked at the birds, shook her head.

  ‘Poor daft soul he is.’

  ‘Well, I take it you don’t want to make anything of this, mistress, him being simple, and kin?’

  ‘No, Serjeant.’

  She hung her head in the face of his stare.

  ‘Good. Well, if you take a care to your brother’s son, as well as his mother, who is, as you said, a poor house-wyf, he has a better chance in life. Good day to you.’

  Catchpoll returned to find Walkelin and the undersheriff trying to persuade a bellicose-looking individual that the undersheriff’s own horse was not the grey for which everyone was meant to be on the lookout. Bradecote glanced at Catchpoll, who shook his head.

  ‘Wild duck chase, my lord.’

  ‘That’s far enough.’

  Reginald had thought to arrive early at the meeting place, but the Archer was earlier. The voice sounded lighter, less serious than before. He halted.

  ‘You are here in good time, Archer.’

  ‘Ah, I find it safer so, Master Messenger.’

  There was something in the tone that told Reginald that the Archer was smiling. It irked him.

  ‘I have your next task.’

  ‘And the payment?’

  ‘Of course. Tomorrow, you strike upon the Worcester road, before Hussingtree. They are setting off about the usual time in the forenoon. Here is the payment, as promised, half in advance. I will meet you by the stricken ash the far side of Ombersley an hour before dusk in the evening, the day after the feast of St Luke.’

  He threw the purse of coin and turned away, just so that the Archer did not give him orders.

  ‘And I would have you—’ he stopped. A blackbird pinked its alarm call, and then there was silence, the silence of standing alone upon the road.

  The sheriff’s men trotted into Cookhill quite early in the afternoon. Their morning in Wich had shown their presence, but beyond that had achieved nothing. They had no useful line of investigation and feared they were fighting a losing battle. Christina FitzPayne had asked the steward to direct the undersheriff immediately to her solar, where she had withdrawn upon her return, making no effort to entertain Jocelyn of Shelsley. He had merely shrugged and commented that she must be exhausted and should take to her bed … alone. This last comment had nearly driven her to throw a pitcher at him. She stomped away in high dudgeon, and did not see his slow smile.

  Bradecote took the hall steps with a speed that Catchpoll interpreted correctly. Jocelyn sat in the hall, in the lord’s seat upon the dais, his booted feet upon the table as if he owned it, and smiled over his cup at Bradecote, though the smile became fixed as the law officer passed him by and went directly to the solar.

  Christina sat with some stitchery, though she had not set a single stitch. She looked up, and the eagerness in her face made Hugh Bradecote’s heart lurch. He had seen her sad, tired, amazingly angry, and smiling as a cover, but this was a genuine look that said she was glad to see him. Her lips parted in a smile, and she stood up, letting linen and needle fall to the floor.

  ‘You asked to see me, my lady?’

  ‘I think I have information, my lord, perhaps not much, but something. I hope it pleases you.’

  Bradecote was guilty of a thought worthy of Serjeant Catchpoll, and coloured.

  ‘I … er … am sure it must, my lady.’

  ‘I went to four fletchers in the area.’ She pulled a wry face. ‘And guess who decided he had to come too?’

  ‘Ah.’

  ‘Yes. He would have made any poor man shake his head and deny his own trade. But at the last, the fletcher’s old father, when he inspected the arrow, said the fletching and binding were like those of one Tostig, at Stone up near Kidderminster.’

  ‘Tostig in Stone. Right.’

  ‘No, no, my lord, I fear it is not as simple. Tostig died years ago. The old fletcher says, though, that he would swear that whoever fletched the arrow that killed Corbin had learnt to do so with this Tostig. If the Archer fletches his own, then he must originate from Stone or thereabouts. Does this help?’

  He smiled at her enthusiasm. Even if it did not solve their problems it was something for them to chase, and might just set them after the right hare. He tried to deny to himself that if it gave her cause to smile at him like that it was a huge help, even if not in the investigation of crimes.

  ‘Well, it is more than we have thus far, my lady. Today I had to persuade a man I was not riding the grey horse we seek. If we know where our man originated it might be possible to work out his identity. After all, he must have shown promise with the bow in his youth.’

  ‘I fear you say this merely to make me feel less useless, my lord Bradecote.’

  ‘No, it is true enough, but I will not lie and say our path lies clear before us. My lady, I cannot promise you success, only that we will do the best possible. If the attacks ended now, well, I do not rate our chances highly. The more often they take place, the more likely for them to leave a clue, make a simple mistake, and then we will have our archer and the gang.’

  ‘That means more poor men will die.’ Her face grew solemn.

  ‘It does, and I am sorry for it.’

  ‘The world is full of such wickedness, sometimes it seems black.’

  Her voice was sorrowful, and the eyes she raised to his were moist. He was filled with a desire to protect her, comfort her, shield her from the blackness that had haunted her past. There was a foot or so between them. They did not touch, not even by so much as a fingertip, and yet, in that moment, they felt as close as if they had kissed. She blushed; he looked at his feet, and cleared his throat.

  ‘I should … um … that is …’

  His tongue tied itself in knots. Christina found release in the simplest manner; she laughed. It was a soft, pleasant sound tinged by neither bitterness nor sarcasm. He grinned, boyishly, and in that moment she knew, more certainly than she had ever known anything, that here was a man who would never hurt her, a man to whom she could give, and she wanted him. It was a revelation that made her tremble. He frowned slightly, unsure what would happen next. She opened her mouth to speak, and at that moment the door opened, and Jocelyn of Shelsley ambled in, announcing loudly that his poor cousin’s widow was not fulfilling her duties as a hostess.

  ‘I mean, you may be closeted with my lord Bradecote here upon shrieval business, but, by the Rood, I am left loitering, and with not so much as a jug of good ale for company. Look,’ he belched loudly, and held up an empty pitcher. ‘It is not fair, I tell you. I am kindred. I have rights. I demand—’

  ‘No right, my lord, kinsman or no, to demand in my solar. I shall be with you directly, and will provide you with more ale to slake your no doubt prodigious thirst. In the meantime you will leave us.’

  He gaped like a landed fish, blustered and withdrew, muttering. Hugh Bradecote watched her. She was regal, magnificent, but the moment of unexpected intimacy was gone, though not forgotten. He smiled wryly.

  ‘I fear he is jealous, my lady, that I am welcome where he is not.’

  As the words hung in the air for a fraction of a breath, he realised their depth of meaning. His eyes widened, and, stammering an excuse, he made to leave.

  ‘My lord,’ her words halted him and he turned. ‘You,’ she paused, and her voice dropped to a whisper, ‘are.’

  Her cheeks suffused; she dashed past him into the hall, calling in an unnaturally casual voice for a maidservant.

  Jocelyn of Shelsley saw the flushed cheeks and pursed his lips, for he held his drink far better than he let show. He had initially assumed the undersheriff was just entertaining himself, as he was, in the presence of a pretty female. He now sensed something more, and had found out that Bradecote was wifeless. It galled him, and he railed against the laws of affinity that barred him from taking his cousin’s comely widow to wife. If Robert FitzPayne did not return to claim his inheritance, and crusade was a dange
rous enterprise, he could make claim to this, the caput of Corbin’s honours. But there was also the outlying land to the south, near Evesham, which would go as the widow’s portion. Realistically, he had hoped Christina would ask to take the veil and give that and her inheritance from de Malfleur to a house of nuns. It seemed less of an insult than another man getting them. Then a worse thought occurred to him. Bradecote was the sheriff’s vassal, just as he was. What if the undersheriff solved the salt thefts and was basking in de Beauchamp’s favour? Might a grateful lord not reward him with both the woman and the manors? It was a horrible thought, one which Jocelyn tried to dismiss, but which lingered like a foul taste in the mouth. Thankfully, he saw his way clear to preventing the situation. His face relaxed into a sly smile. It would even be enjoyable.

  Bradecote emerged a minute or so later, his features schooled into nonchalance even as his mind raced. He ignored Jocelyn and strode through the hall and out to find Catchpoll.

  The serjeant was already ingratiating himself with the cook in a manner that Walkelin would have been wise to learn. The serjeant’s apprentice relied upon boyish eagerness to gain titbits and second helpings. There was not even the memory of boyishness to Catchpoll, and yet he could be most efficient when he set his mind to it. There were apple dumplings being prepared, which happened to be one of Catchpoll’s favourite sweet dishes, and he was angling to make sure he received a generous portion.

  Bradecote leant against the doorway and watched a master in action. Catchpoll could be brusque, intimidating, downright offensive when he chose, which was most of the time. Yet he had the ability to be one of the crowd among his fellows. Here he was, making much of his missing Mistress Catchpoll’s cooking, and implying that his life was not his own at the hands of the oppressive nobility. Well, the sheriff certainly ordered him about at will, but he had the same power over the undersheriff. Bradecote hid a smile and decided to play along with the image.

  ‘Serjeant, I want words with you, now.’

  The tone was tetchy. Catchpoll turned in genuine surprise.

  ‘My lord, I—’

  ‘Now, not when you choose to stop talking about puddings.’

  At first nonplussed, Catchpoll had caught the glint in his superior’s eye, and had to fight the urge to grin. Instead, he adopted a long-suffering demeanour, threw the cook a look which said ‘see how I am treated’, and followed Bradecote into the yard.

  ‘You are clearly a difficult man to work for, my lord.’

  ‘Yes, I thought I gave that impression rather well.’ Bradecote smirked. ‘But if you do as well out of that charade as you hope, remember to have Cook put away some dumplings for us to take with us tomorrow.’

  ‘Seems a reasonable request, my lord, since you worked for them.’

  ‘Mmmm, and by the by, remember this time it was you who dragged me from my manor.’

  ‘At the lord de Beauchamp’s command, mind.’

  ‘True.’ Bradecote’s expression became more serious. ‘And I think we might have the glimmer of a clue about our archer, thanks to the lady FitzPayne.’ He realised he would now have to reveal the arrows were no longer in his possession. Well, Catchpoll did not need to know precisely how the lady obtained them. ‘Yes, I let her have the arrow that killed Corbin FitzPayne so that she might visit the local fletchers and see if any recognised it. She is known to some and they would not hold back from assisting the widow.’

  ‘Is that so, my lord?’

  Catchpoll’s scepticism was clear.

  ‘Er, yes. And it has proved a potentially useful exercise. She found a fletcher whose father recognised the manner of fletching and binding as one used years back by a fletcher up in the north of the shire, close by the Shropshire border. His view was that the man who made the arrow learnt the craft from the fletcher Tostig, alas now dead.’

  ‘Hmmmm,’ Catchpoll pulled his ear ruminatively. ‘Well, it helps and doesn’t. If we go to where the fletcher worked there may be others who recall a young archer who learnt from him. I am assuming we are not thinking a fletcher by trade is doing this.’

  ‘I agree, though knowing the name of our man is only a start. It is more than we have so far so I want us to set off at dawn tomorrow. Warn Walkelin he will miss his breaking of fast.’

  ‘Yes, my lord.’ The death’s head grin appeared. ‘Hope he won’t just fade away through starvation.’ Catchpoll decided it was better not to ask what had occasioned this thawing between the undersheriff and their hostess, but since it had clearly put the lord Bradecote in a far better temper, it was a good thing.

  Jocelyn of Shelsley seemed in ebullient mood over the evening meal, his earlier faux pas a thing of the past. It was noticeable that he gave little scope for Bradecote to engage the lady of the manor in conversation, but it did spare her his condescension. She was, however, the subject of effusive compliments, which made her squirm and blush, and cast Bradecote fleeting looks of embarrassed anguish. The lord of Shelsley was a bore, but if listening to him protected the lady, Bradecote was happy to stand bluff.

  ‘I was wondering if I might accompany you to Wich in the morning? I do not possess a salt house, but the salt I purchase comes from there, of course. I was wondering if production is curtailed whether the price of salt might rise. I would be interested to see how they fare in Wich, and travelling the Salt Roads is best done in numbers at present.’

  Bradecote looked less than enthused by this, but saw the relief upon Christina FitzPayne’s face.

  ‘To be sure, you may do so, but I do not think you will find much to detain you and we are heading north for the day.’

  ‘To where Tostig the Fletcher worked?’ Christina FitzPayne made no attempt to conceal the excitement in her voice.

  ‘To Stone, my lady, yes. There is a chance someone may recall a lad who learnt the craft from Tostig, and was an able archer.’

  ‘So then you will know the name of the man who is killing so many.’ Jocelyn paused, his manner suddenly far less friendly. ‘That will be such a comfort.’

  Bradecote flashed him a look of irritation.

  ‘No comfort, but from such beginnings are endings found.’

  ‘And how many lives have been ended thus far, my lord Undersheriff?’ That stung, as he knew it would. ‘Must be nigh on a dozen by now.’

  Christina FitzPayne stood abruptly.

  ‘That, my lord, is in poor taste when you sup in the hall of one of the victims. And nor would it show my hospitality to let you insult a man who is here, not by kinship, but at my invitation. You will withdraw those words, or you will leave my hall.’

  ‘You would not cast me out into the darkness, now, would you?’

  ‘Find out, my lord, if your courage permits.’

  ‘You are overwrought. I humbly apologise, of course, both to you and to the estimable lord Bradecote. I spoke unthinkingly.’

  Bradecote considered the last comment far from the mark, but nodded an acceptance. Christina could not but do the same, though it rankled. At least he would be away for the following day. The atmosphere remained cool, however, and shortly afterwards Christina withdrew to the solar. Jocelyn watched Bradecote’s eyes follow her to the door, and considered it an evening well spent.

  Chapter Nine

  Jocelyn was less pleased at being shaken when the dawn was only just breaking as a thread of pale light upon the eastern horizon. In truth, Bradecote could have waited a little longer but rousing the snorer early seemed justifiable revenge, and gave him at least a moment’s pleasure.

  ‘Time to rise, my lord, for we have a long day before us and depart upon full light.’

  Jocelyn of Shelsley made a groaning noise indicative of how much he regretted that statement, and Bradecote grinned in the semi-darkness and listened to the low grumbling that ensued with a depth of pleasure out of all proportion to the deed.

  It was only as they were about to depart that Christina came to the top of the steps, her shoulders wrapped in a fur to keep out the chill, for th
e morning was distinctly cold. Their breaths hung upon the air as if the ghosts of words, and if Bradecote and Christina exchanged but formal phrases, he knew she was watching as he led the party out of the gate.

  Catchpoll watched Jocelyn of Shelsley’s back, and was grateful that he could do so. Listening to him would have driven him to some very impolite language. There were, he thought, certain advantages to not being of the lordly class, and not having to seem to listen to such a windbag was one of them. That Bradecote had not turned upon the man and threatened to ram his teeth down his throat if he did not use them to bite his tongue showed remarkable restraint, in his considered opinion. He was fairly sure the man meant to goad by prattling on in such a way, and wondered whether the lack of animosity between the undersheriff and the widow had anything to do with it. The lord of Shelsley was the sort of dog-in-a-manger type who would resent another man having what he could not, and if he sensed Bradecote forming a tenderness, then he would be keen to make things difficult.

  ‘Of course, this day to Stone is a wild goose chase, though it will pander to the lady’s wish to seem to be doing something. And you have no better use for the day, I assume?’

  Bradecote did not reply, which was taken as confirmation, but his jaw was set, and the older man smiled to himself.

  ‘Then perhaps you might as well lay claim to be doing something. I would be very surprised if the old fletcher could tell arrowhead from goose quill, so poor were his eyes. Did the lady not tell you he had to peer within inches of the thing to see it? Oh well. The horses will enjoy the exercise.’

  Catchpoll could see his superior’s back stiffen, and was conscious of a feeling akin to sympathy, which was most irregular in him. The undersheriff urged his horse into a canter, the quicker to reach the ‘haven’ of Wich where this incubus could be abandoned.

  Walter Reeve was a worried man. Several lords had beaten a path to his door over the last few days, eager to blame him personally for something over which he saw he had absolutely no control. There were mutterings about collusion, hints of sending baleful reports to the Earl Waleran. He was beset by the law and the landed, all telling him he was not doing enough, when there was nothing he could do.