Walter Reeve arrived back, somewhat out of breath, with a worried individual in tow. The man, by name Edwin, was obviously very much in awe of the law. He was also encumbered with a stutter, which his nerves made worse. Bradecote winced when upon being asked about salt the poor man repeated the word, or tried to do so.
‘Yes, we wondered if anyone had seen ponies, or a cart perhaps, containing salt, shortly before the “strange happening”.’
‘Er … often w … w … wagons, h … h … heading …’ he pointed west to avoid a stuttered ‘west’.
‘Any that day or even the day before?’
Edwin shook his head. Then he frowned.
‘Wh … wh … wh … wheels at n … n … n … night.’
The man rolled his eyes, fearful that his brusque responses might land him in trouble, but the undersheriff looked delighted.
‘Really. Night before?’
There was another nod.
‘Then what we want you to do is take us to the field where the frost did not lie.’
The frown deepened.
‘Wh … wh … wheel.’
‘Yes, we under—oh, the wheel to be mended! Master Reeve, you are to send the wheel back upon repair. Edwin, you come with us.’
‘Must it be on my beast?’ grumbled Walkelin, remembering how uncomfortable it had been with Edric up behind him.
‘Yes, it must,’ averred Serjeant Catchpoll, without any trace of sympathy.
They rode west from Wich, through Ombersley, crossing the Severn with the punt ferrymen to the cluster of cottages that made Holt. There was a village reeve, thankfully enabling the stuttering Edwin to stand down from answering questions. The relief was mutual. Wilfrid was a sensible man, who, when the consternation of his fellows was revealed to him, shook his head, and tut-tutted.
‘I never understands why so many folk cannot see the real when there is the chance for unreal. I could have spared you the journey to see this “miracle” since it was none. I tried telling ’em, but who would listen to sense when there is talk of elves and evil spirits?’
‘Oh, we know what caused it, never you fear,’ declared Catchpoll, ‘but we would be mighty interested in seeing where it happened, and hearing from anyone who heard or saw a cart the other night, when carts should not be abroad.’
‘Now there’s a thing, for I did hear a cart, but right about then our William burnt his hand and there was such a to-do as took my mind from it. Mind you, if anyone was being crafty and illegal, they were not quiet about it, since others seem to have heard. Odd, most odd. Now, you come along with me and I will show you the place where someone must have spilt salt.’
He led them just off the road on a cart track beside which was an area where the tired grass now looked decidedly died away. There were deep wheel marks within a few feet.
‘Why here?’ mused Catchpoll.
‘Well, I suppose they were bringing salt to my lord de Lasson’s barn up yonder. Perhaps a beast had gone lame and they were delayed. Looks like it nearly toppled here, in the dark. Must have hit uneven ground. Better to lie up in his barn than carry on. Then they could continue on their way to his manors in the morning.’
Walkelin made an excited, choking noise and Catchpoll gave him a severe glance.
‘But this manor is held by the lord de Beauchamp, surely?’ Bradecote was confused.
‘Indeed, my lord, but my lord de Lasson holds one virgate and his barn.’
‘Then I think we should go and look inside this barn.’
‘My lord, I have no right, and—’
‘On behalf of the lord Sheriff and the King’s Grace, we do. Come.’
Wilfrid the Reeve looked uncomfortable, but it was out of his hands so he made no further demur, and followed the three men, now leading their horses, to the well-kept barn. They lifted the heavy timber latch and entered the darkness that smelt of winnowings. They blinked, trying to get used to the low light. There, in the middle of the barn, was a cart, a cart with bags of salt piled upon it, though some had fallen over and others were split.
‘Well, bless me, why did they not take the cart onward, since they took the beasts that pulled it?’
Wilfrid sounded genuinely perplexed.
‘Tell me, has the lord de Lasson ever left his salt here before, when taking it to his manors or on to Wales?’
‘No, my lord. And come to think of it, I had heard he was not moving any salt for a week or so.’
The sheriff’s men exchanged looks. Walkelin had ‘I told you so’ written in his expression.
‘Thank you. We require no more of you, except that you see none come and take this cart away in the next few days.’
‘As you decree, my lord.’
The man withdrew, and hoped that the lord de Lasson would not hear of his assistance to the undersheriff, for he was an unforgiving man.
‘That seems to seal it, my lord.’ Walkelin could no longer contain his delight.
‘Before you turn cartwheels, young Walkelin,’ remarked Catchpoll, drily, ‘should we ask ourselves why the salt was not indeed taken further?’
‘Simple, because if the lord’s manor was under suspicion for any reason and searched, there would be nothing inc … incrinim … to make him look guilty. We had no idea he held land here, did we?’
‘He has a point, Catchpoll. Admit it,’ Bradecote murmured.
‘A point, yes, my lord, but … it is not writ in stone in my opinion, and I do so wish it was, if we are going to ride in on de Lasson and make accusations.’
‘Cannot be helped, Serjeant. There is enough here to make “riding in on him” perfectly justifiable, and indeed, unjustifiable if we did not. How do we explain if this cart is identified, as I am sure it will be, as either de Malfleur’s or even the one heading for Bordesley? We cannot say, “Ah but it meant speaking to the lord de Lasson, and we did not like to upset him.”’
‘Forgive me, my lord, but from your last meeting I would say that upsetting him would be high on your list of things that would please you no end.’
‘Ah yes, but I am keeping an unbiased view here, Catchpoll.’ Bradecote kept a straight face.
‘Very commendable, my lord. Shall we go and see the penny-pinching bastard now, then?’
‘Oh, I think we should. I really do.’ The grin could not be contained any longer.
It was a little after noon when the sheriff’s men cantered into the manor of Collington, chief honour of Rannulf de Lasson. They were greeted by a wary steward, who was used to handling nobility with caution. He was respectful but unforthcoming. His lord, he said, had ridden out, and had not informed him when he might return. Bradecote groaned. The steward was about to suggest he return at another time, when a clatter of hooves in the gateway announced the lord’s return. They turned, and Walkelin’s jaw actually dropped. Rannulf de Lasson, with a rather tired-looking, fur-edged cloak about him, was astride not the sad specimen they had seen in Wich, but a very tidy grey, a grey the colour of dulled mail and with two white stockings and a star upon its forehead. Even Catchpoll was stunned.
‘Bradecote, and the full panoply of the law, well, well. What brings you to Herefordshire and out of your remit, my lord?’
Rannulf de Lasson’s tone was haughty, and showed no sign that his discovery upon a murdered man’s horse discommoded him in any way. Hugh Bradecote was momentarily nonplussed, and sounded it.
‘We, er, we found a cart of salt, almost certainly stolen salt, in your barn at Holt, my lord, and wished for explanation.’
‘Salt? In Holt? There was no indication that my salt house had produced enough to send by cart as yet, and besides, I left firm instructions for them to retain it until I said otherwise. I will have whoever gave the order to move it flogged.’
‘No, my lord,’ Catchpoll spoke slowly, but with a veneer of deference, ‘this was not your salt. It is most likely to be that of the lord de Malfleur.’
He thought this a crafty move, for telling de Lasson it might belong to
the Cistercians of Bordesley would not worry him. Telling him it might be de Malfleur’s would. It did. The lord of the manor blinked and grew pale.
‘De Malfleur’s? But … how?’
Bradecote had recovered his composure, and only wished he had thought of throwing Baldwin de Malfleur into the mix. The effect was worth seeing, though if it was an act it was a good one. If he had ordered the stealing of the salt, he must have known whose it was. No, that did not quite hold true, for if he had but instructed his intermediary to discover departures of salt from Wich and arrange their theft, he might not have known about de Malfleur’s loss until after the event, when it was too late to undo what was done. Thereafter he could only bluff his way through. It might certainly have sent him to Wich to find out how much was known and to play the outraged lord to side with de Malfleur.
‘That, my lord de Lasson,’ Bradecote smiled innocently enough, though de Lasson was not fooled, ‘is what we were hoping you could explain to us.’
‘I do not know. How could I know?’
‘You could know if your men hid it there, though why they waited until last night to do so is a little odd. Was there a problem with the cart, perhaps?’
‘You are accusing me – me – of these crimes? How dare you? I shall make report to Miles of Gloucester, the sheriff of this shire. And you cannot come here. It should be him if anyone need speak with me.’
It was a moot point, but Bradecote felt that since at this stage the evidence was so good and immediate, this visit, at least, did not require the Sheriff of Herefordshire.
‘Accusing you, no, not yet, but you must admit it does look dubious, when a cartload of evidence is found in one of your outlying barns, all tucked up quiet, and,’ here Bradecote paused for a moment, before delivering the coup de grâce, ‘when you are mounted upon the horse Corbin FitzPayne was riding when he was struck down by an arrow.’
Rannulf de Lasson stared at Bradecote as if he had taken leave of his senses.
‘What?’ It came out as a hissing whisper.
‘Oh yes, that very nice grey, which you clearly have not possessed long enough to ruin, is exactly the animal described to us by FitzPayne’s widow. It is a very distinctive horse.’
‘But I bought this beast but the day before yesterday, my servants will vouch for it, from a man coming from the Welsh border. He was some poor knight down upon his luck. There had been Welsh brigands crossing the border and he had lost wife and manor to sword and flame. He was a broken man, and had all he had rescued, his best horse and the one he had been riding when he returned to find his manor under attack. He was heading east to the Benedictines at Alcester, he said, and would take the cowl. The grey, well, I offered him a fair price for it, since he needed but one horse to ride upon, and it would give him coin as well as a ruined manor prone to Welsh attack, to offer the monks for his admission.’
‘Fair?’ murmured Walkelin, so low only Catchpoll heard it. ‘On the cheap, I would swear oath.’
‘He accepted at once,’ continued de Lasson, ‘and departed upon the lesser beast.’
‘This mythical unfortunate, describe him to me, my lord.’
Rannulf de Lasson grew purple in the face.
‘You think I lie? You dare to—’
‘Describe him.’ Bradecote’s face was impassive, but the command was firm and at such a volume that heads turned, even those pretending not to listen to what was going on. De Lasson complied.
‘What manner of man? Ordinary, not badly dressed but not in his finest. He was tall, and thin-faced, and in his forties, I should have guessed, with receding hair. You could see him as a monk. The chestnut was an average animal with a jagged blaze down its face, and he wore his sword like one who had used it; the scabbard had old “scars” upon it.’
The tower of hope within Bradecote and his companions, crumbled to dust. There was little that de Lasson could have said to exonerate himself, but this did so, unless he was so clever he had considered that they would be hunting sword and scabbard as well as the horse, and decided to make up a horseman who carried them. But the chestnut with the lightning blaze was real. It was the animal that Jocelyn had almost certainly seen in Wich and used as a false trail, not knowing it was a true one. Bradecote heard Catchpoll’s slight hiss. It was now a case of extricating themselves without appearing defensive.
‘Where were these scars, my lord?’
He carefully chose to sound as yet unconvinced.
‘Er … there was a deep cut into the leather near the top, and some scuffing also.’
‘Hmmm, and you thought this tale of Welsh brigandage sounded likely?’
‘What reason had I to doubt it?’
Bradecote saw his opportunity.
‘It did not perhaps occur to you that a man who turns up, unannounced, with a tale of woe and a good horse he is willing to sell cheaply – and do not tell me it was not cheap, my lord – might not be honest?’
‘No,’ lied de Lasson.
‘Well, we will return the horse to lady FitzPayne, of course, and request everyone to be on the lookout for this thin man on the chestnut.’
‘But I paid for it,’ de Lasson blustered.
‘My lord, it is a lesson well learnt, that some things are too good to be true. You will be more careful in the future from whom you buy, I am sure. And the cart of salt will be returned to Baldwin de Malfleur, should it be his, with your compliments, since you say you knew nothing of its presence in your barn, and we, of course, accept the word of so important a lord.’
Bradecote inclined his head. De Lasson was confused now. Surely the undersheriff had not believed a word before, but now? The loss of the horse was an embarrassment and good money wasted, but he had wondered at the story he was given and chosen to play along. Better to be rid of the whole problem, though he would complain of his treatment to Miles of Gloucester. He dismounted, ordered a groom to remove his saddlery from the grey, halter it, and hand it to the undersheriff. He made no attempt to offer hospitality, but ‘thanked’ Bradecote, for the sake of the onlookers, for drawing these matters to his attention, and wished them a safe journey, whilst secretly wishing Bradecote would break his neck.
As the trio, with Walkelin leading FitzPayne’s grey, left the courtyard, Serjeant Catchpoll cast his superior a look of undisguised admiration.
‘That, my lord, was masterly. Considering the depth of the hole in which we found ourselves, and a hole deepening as we stood there, it was almost miraculous. He will complain to his sheriff, of course, but will most likely sound a fool. Miles of Gloucester is no idiot.’
‘Thank you, Serjeant. From one so versed in the art of wiliness, that is indeed a compliment. Trouble is, it leaves Walkelin’s theory dead in the dust, and … Sweet Jesu, the hooded rider the widow woman saw might well have been the “poor knight” from whom de Lasson bought the horse and also the Go-Between. We were so dismissive because of Jocelyn’s meddling, and the foolishness of “Ghost Archers” that we linked what the Widow Agar saw to him, but the fact was she saw a hooded rider the day before Jocelyn came to Wich, and so was not part of the deceit. It was pure chance that the real horse was chestnut as well as the one Jocelyn invented to distract us.’ He swore, volubly.
‘No point in regrets, my lord,’ declared Catchpoll, reasonably. ‘Even if the man was the link between Aelward the Archer and whoever is directing him, what could we have done? Chestnut horses are common enough, even with a blaze, and all we know is that the man was heading north. It helps us, but only a little, and prevents nothing.’
‘Sorry, my lord. It is my fault for being so keen on the lord de Lasson being behind it all.’ Walkelin shook his head, sadly.
‘Don’t apologise, lad. It’s a sign of weakness.’ Catchpoll gave a small, grim smile. ‘We all would have liked to see de Lasson at the centre of it all. The thing is, he was the best motive we had. Greed is a powerful thing.’
‘So is being an evil bastard, and de Malfleur was next on our list. We may ev
en have to look carefully at the miserable Jocelyn, who seemed so unlikely.’ Bradecote sighed. ‘The man on the chestnut could have been heading to de Malfleur at Rushock, but might have been off to meet Aelward, though I hope not. And Shelsley is in this direction, so leaving the salt at Holt for a while might have been a good idea, before taking it on to there when quieter.’
‘But if it is him, my lord, there has been no opportunity for the Go-Between to see him.’ Walkelin paused. ‘At least we have some vague idea of what the man looks like now, which is a start. We can warn about one such in Wich.’
‘We have not watched him, the lord of Shelsley, and the lady FitzPayne is probably so glad when he is not underfoot, she would not ask where he had been if he slipped away for an hour.’ Bradecote considered the matter. ‘He would certainly know everything we discover by being on hand. He may even have given the Go-Between orders just to keep arranging attacks until he calls a halt.’
‘All well and good, my lord, but his motive is almost non-existent.’ Catchpoll sighed. ‘It gets no easier.’
It actually got more difficult when they reached Wich, because there was a hubbub in the town. Knowing they would arrive late in the day, the packmen heading the previous day to Worcester had said they were unlikely to return the same day, but were now expected. Instead a message had been received that the salt heading for Worcester had not arrived. People were gathering, solemn-faced. The arrival of the undersheriff was greeted with sullen glumness. Walter Reeve, at the eye of a growing storm of disquiet, looked beleaguered.
There was not enough daylight left for a search party to have any chance of being thorough, and so it was arranged that the sheriff’s men would take men out early the next day. All in all, a day that had begun in hope was ending dismally.
Chapter Twelve
Christina had avoided her lingering guest for much of the day. When she had commented that his own manors must need his attention, he had waved a hand airily and declared he had men he could trust to oversee the everyday matters, and that her need was far more important. There was something in the way he said it, accompanying a most unsettling leer, that made her feel sick. She had thereafter contrived to have either the steward or a servant present all afternoon, but had developed a headache and finally retired to her chamber, lay upon the box bed, pulled a sheepskin over her feet, and closed her eyes. She lay in a half-waking, half-sleeping state, time in limbo, her thoughts jumbled, and many of them concerning the undersheriff. She only part-registered the drawing back of the curtain, but her eyes flew open as someone sat upon the edge of the bed. Jocelyn was smiling down at her, smiling the smile she had learnt to loathe on a man.
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