Marked to Die

by Sarah Hawkswood

  ‘Accident?’ Catchpoll snorted. ‘Have you ever seen a man drown in a hot salt pan in an “accident”?’

  ‘Well, no.’ The man swallowed and glanced at the body, then winced. ‘He might have been drunk and done so.’

  ‘You mean he wandered in here, unchallenged, and just collapsed into the fresh boiling?’ Disbelief rang in Catchpoll’s voice. ‘Why should the town reeve do—’

  ‘That’s Walter? Oh my God, it is!’

  Oswald began to shake.

  ‘Ah, so you recognise him. Can you explain his presence here, dead in your salt pan?’

  The serjeant’s tone was near casual now, as if he were but mildly interested.

  ‘He is – he was – my cousin. Sweet Heaven, and I saw him but yesterday.’

  ‘No doubt.’ Catchpoll kept up the pressure.

  ‘What do you mean?’ Oswald was on the defensive, suspicious.

  ‘The salt is made every day, even, it seems, on holy days, since the contents of the pan are still warm.’ Bradecote joined in, keeping the salt-maker off balance. ‘So why were the family not here overnight? Had you sent them elsewhere?’

  Oswald blinked and stared at one then the other.

  ‘Who are you?’ he asked, belatedly.

  ‘We,’ announced Serjeant Catchpoll, in his most impressive tone, ‘are the sheriff’s men, and this,’ he indicated Hugh Bradecote with apparent pride, ‘is the lord Undersheriff of the shire. I am surprised you have not seen us about Wich this last week or more.’

  ‘No, I … My daughter had a spotted fever and we kept within doors as much as possible until a day or two back,’ he made a rough obeisance to Bradecote, and added, ‘my lord.’

  ‘And yesterday?’ Bradecote accepted that the reason sounded ‘right’, but was not going to accept it blindly.

  ‘We had a boiling in the afternoon, though took the morning as a holy day and went to church and did not fire the pans until mid afternoon, it must have been. Then, as the light failed, word came that my wife’s mother was dying. She broke her leg last week and it sent her downhill fast. She lives in a village just outside Wich, and I would not send my Emma there in the dark, so we all went. It was right we should.’

  ‘What about the boilings?’

  ‘They were doing well, but it would be madness to leave the fires unattended. We raked out three, but that one,’ he nodded at the one from which they had taken Walter Reeve, ‘was at the point we would have built it up. You see we boil, but not too fierce, the lead being soft. So we let that one die of itself. It was down to a red glow and we reckoned it safe and contained in the stone of the oven there. It would have been out by mid evening.’

  ‘You remained at this deathbed all evening?’ Bradecote did not doubt the reply he would receive. ‘And there are those who can vouch you did not return until now?’

  ‘Oh yes, my lord. The wife’s brother, and an aunt.’ Oswald nodded vigorously. ‘My wife’s mother died about the middle of the night.’

  Catchpoll scratched his grizzled chin.

  ‘So when did you see your cousin Walter?’

  ‘As we were leaving. I told him where we were off to, and he offered sympathy to the wife.’

  ‘How did he seem to you?’ Bradecote adopted Catchpoll’s casual tone. ‘When you parted.’

  ‘Quite bright, sort of sparrow-chirpy, you might say, my lord. Might have just been that he was off to the alehouse, of course.’

  ‘So he knew you would be away all night?’

  Oswald looked at Catchpoll.

  ‘Of course, I told him so.’

  ‘And did he have anybody with him, or say he was meeting anyone?’

  ‘No, he was alone.’

  ‘Fair enough,’ Catchpoll sniffed, and looked to his superior, who shook his head. There was no reason to think Oswald Tuckett had anything to do with the killing. ‘We will need your house a little longer, until we can return the body to the widow. Best you keep the family out the way an hour more.’

  ‘Aye, I will take them to the church,’ he shuddered, ‘and will ask the priest to come and sprinkle holy water upon my pans.’

  Dismissed, he left swiftly.

  ‘So, Catchpoll, do you read what happened the same way I do?’

  ‘Depends, my lord, upon what you say.’

  ‘I surmise,’ and here Bradecote leant his head to one side and forced himself to look at the remains of Walter Reeve, ‘that Walter thought he could capture the tall stranger, and maybe even get him to tell what he knew before he brought him to us. He wanted to be the man of the moment.’

  ‘He achieved that,’ Catchpoll noted, with a macabre grin, ‘but not in the way he expected.’

  ‘No. He thought he was cleverer than his opponent, and he was not. He found the man in the tavern, bought him ale to lull him, perhaps even get him a little drunk, and pretended he was in his normal state.’ Bradecote smiled at Catchpoll. ‘Ah yes, I did take note of the tipped-over jug. He wanted the man to “help” him home again, but he brought him here, not sure what he said to do so, and once inside declared himself to the tall man, who decided he was too dangerous to live, and so killed him. How’s that?’

  ‘You want me to clap, my lord?’ Catchpoll grinned, which took away the chance of his words being seen as insubordinate sarcasm.

  ‘No, your agreement will suffice, you wily old bastard.’

  ‘Then you have it, my lord.’ Catchpoll took the epithet as a compliment. ‘Trouble is,’ and he pulled an earlobe thoughtfully, ‘I do not see our killer being likely to hang around Wich for a while. We can make known his description, but he would be a fool to return, and if he got his information from the reeve, unbeknownst to the man, well, his source has, er, dried up in more ways than one.’

  ‘Your sense of humour, Catchpoll, is twisted.’

  ‘Indeed, my lord. Better laugh than throw up your last meal like Walkelin there.’ His face grew serious again. ‘Best we force the body into a semblance of repose, and cover the face, my lord, not that it will be easy, but we cannot take him to his widow like that.’ There was no humour now, ghoulish or otherwise.

  ‘Er, how do we, um …’ Walkelin looked at the contorted frame, ‘achieve that?’

  ‘By force, if necessary, lad.’

  It was, and Walkelin had recourse to the wicker basket a second time.

  Chapter Fifteen

  The ash tree had once been a fine specimen, but its very height had marked it for destruction, and a bolt of lightning had riven it in two. The part that fell had been taken, bit by bit, though it was a good mile from Ombersley, and there were those who shook their heads over taking the result of a lightning strike into their homes. Lightning was the work of Heaven, and if Heaven had judged the tree, they said, it must have been possessed, and woe betide any that used the condemned branches as firewood. Bad luck was sure to follow. Despite this, it was now only the surviving trunk, bearing the deep white scar and dead portion of upper branches, that remained, and in the dimming light those pale fingers pointing skyward had a spectral appearance.

  The Archer was not concerned. He waited patiently, in the undergrowth opposite, at one with the softly rustling woods. Not for him wild superstition, though he might have thought arrow shafts from such a tree had a special quality when hunting. That was something unconscious, passed from his father when he was but a small boy, and nothing, he would have told himself, to do with elves, spirits or celestial judgement. Like Catchpoll, the Archer had seen enough deaths, been the instrument of them often enough too, not to worry about those who had ceased to draw breath. He prayed for those he knew and to whom he had been close, and left the rest to be prayed for by their own kin. He did not think they walked in the night, nor called upon the wind. And yet, though he tried to keep them shrouded, he did have his ‘ghosts’, the images that surfaced occasionally and sent a shudder through his soul; the look of surprise, and accusation, the frozen bewilderment of the moment of death, as his lord half spun round to face the man
whose sword had slashed hard enough to slice even the backbone; his father crawling towards him, calling his name, raising a bloody face made blank by the empty, gory sockets; a soldier given up to the bloodlust of battle, striking through an imploring woman and the squalling babe in her arms. Those did not stay ‘dead and buried’, and no priest would ever exorcise them, but he knew most fighting men had them, and they accepted their existence as they did old wounds that ached when the weather grew damp.

  The sound of the horse’s hoof beats brought him from his abstraction. It was a time of day when it was unlikely to be any but the Messenger, and today, he thought, the Messenger had trouble, for the horse was walking lame. Well, he could sleep out, if he had the skill as the Archer had, or he could find shelter in some villager’s dwelling. It would mean he arrived unhappy, and the Archer, who had an intuitive dislike for the man, smiled to himself. He greeted the tall figure with a very cheerful ‘Good even, Master Messenger’, and Reginald, who was in a filthy mood, grunted in return.

  ‘How long has your beast been lame?’

  ‘These three miles since, may it die a death!’ Reginald jumped slightly, despite knowing the man would be somewhere about, but the voice sounded disembodied.

  ‘Have a care to his feet, and you should need less care to your own, Master Messenger, but three miles is not far to walk upon a brisk evening.’

  The Archer doubted the other man looked after his horse with any care.

  ‘If I wanted advice on horseflesh, or on walking, I would not seek it here,’ replied Reginald, with acerbity.

  He was tired, his boots pinched, and, as the Archer had foreseen, he would be asking shelter in some stinking hovel, plagued with noisy children and livestock. It was not a prospect that thrilled him.

  ‘Let us get on with this and I shall be away,’ he declared.

  ‘By all means. I wonder, by the way, how long this is to continue. I am at a loss to see why anyone should want so much salt, or so many lives ended.’

  ‘You are not paid to wonder, Archer, just to loose your arrows straight. And best for you that you just stick to the thing you’re paid to do, for my lord is not one to cross.’

  ‘Then throw down the coin and tell me the next task.’

  ‘The carts heading for the Benedictines at Shrewsbury leave tomorrow. Strike just south of Kidderminster, where there is a ford. They will be there in the mid afternoon. No survivors.’

  ‘Throw the scrip and turn around.’

  Reginald did as he was told. He heard the slight sound of the coins in the bag. Then, oddly, he heard the bag fall upon the ground, and the chink of silver once more.

  ‘No survivors. You know, I grow weary of this. I have taken the silver for south of Wich, but leave you to find another way of ensuring your “no survivors”. Your lord can pay another or perhaps send you.’

  Reginald turned, swiftly, but faced nothing.

  ‘You cannot. My lord has paid—’

  ‘For work done, Master Messenger. I choose to take no more work.’

  Reginald lost his temper, for he was frightened. His lord did not take kindly to failure.

  ‘You do so at your peril, Archer, for none cross Baldwin de Malfleur and live to old age.’

  There was a silence, but not the silence of Reginald standing alone upon the track, he knew that. He smiled. So the Archer could be scared.

  ‘I thought that would wipe the smile from your face, Archer. You have heard of Bal—’

  ‘I know Baldwin de Malfleur.’

  Reginald almost jumped. The tone of the voice had changed. There was no laughter in it, which was as he expected, but it was a tone as cold as the grave.

  ‘And now I know why “no survivors”. It would be his way. But I thought him long dead, drowned.’

  ‘Why no. His vessel foundered on his return from the Holy Land, but he survived and later came home to inherit his brother’s lands after the lord Arnulf died before Lincoln.’

  ‘Tell me, how did Arnulf de Malfleur die?’

  ‘A bad death, from the bloody flux.’

  ‘That is good. Ah yes, that is indeed very good.’

  Reginald shivered. To rejoice in such a death for any man was a foul thing.

  ‘Master Messenger, you have spent these last weeks bringing messages to me. Now, I have one for you to deliver from me, to Baldwin de Malfleur.’

  ‘You send one to him?’ Reginald made a spluttering sound, which the Archer ignored.

  ‘Tell him he is going to die, very soon, and all the priests in the shire cannot shrive him of the sins upon his black soul.’

  ‘But why, Archer?’ Reginald could not contain his curiosity. ‘Why should you want him dead?’

  There was no answer. He and his lame horse were alone upon the trackway.

  Wich had been in uproar from the moment that it was known that Walter Reeve was dead. Rumours spread about what had happened to him, some more unlikely than others, but all dwelt upon the fact that it had been a gruesome end that had sent Mistress Tuckett a shrieking wreck and left her husband sick to his stomach. It had been one thing when the killings had been of Wich men but not within the town. Now every citizen felt threatened, feared who or what might be around every corner. The populace had, after the initial panic, withdrawn into their homes like snails into their shells. Bradecote had tried to make an announcement to as many as possible that they were to report any sightings of a tall, thin man, with receding hair, or a chestnut horse with a lightning blaze down its face. He wondered how many had taken it in. There were already mutterings about ‘curses’ and ‘devils’ and Catchpoll sucked his teeth.

  They left in the afternoon, since the idea that the murderer would be ambling around Wich when the body was likely to be discovered was far from likely. Deprived of the town reeve as their point of contact, they arranged to meet with the tavern keeper next morning, having put it out that any information should be passed to him. The man himself received this news with paling cheek, regarding it as being a probable death sentence. They did explain that if anything were said of use it would quite possibly be in the tavern and without intent. Privately, and in some relief, he thought his alehouse would most likely be deserted, and any drinkers who came to him that evening would almost certainly choose to go home in pairs.

  ‘Trouble is,’ declared Catchpoll, morosely, as they rode back to Cookhill, ‘since they are starting to understand that Walter Reeve was killed because he knew something, they are all going about trying their damnedest to know nothing.’

  ‘Just when we might be getting somewhere, they will act like a flock of sheep, all bleating and running around in circles together.’ Bradecote sighed.

  ‘Should we go to de Malfleur, my lord? We have the excuse of his cart, or one that might be his.’ Walkelin wanted to do something that might be productive.

  ‘But when we get there Walkelin, we have nothing to use as leverage. At least with de Lasson we had the presence of the stolen cart. And I do not think that being thought suspect would worry de Malfleur a jot. He would relish it, in fact. I can just see him laughing in our faces, for we have no evidence whatsoever.’ Bradecote was not hopeful.

  ‘If he is connected, then the man upon the chestnut may have returned to him.’ Walkelin was dogged.

  ‘True enough, young Walkelin, but as the lord Bradecote says, us riding in all official just to tell him his cart might have been found, and asking after our chestnut-horsed murderer, will make him a very happy bastard. It may also mean that if Walter Reeve’s murderer does go back to Rushock, de Malfleur will dispense with him, permanently, and we needs him alive.’ Catchpoll was able to think several steps ahead.

  ‘Sorry, Serjeant.’ Walkelin looked dejected.

  ‘No, it was a fair enough thought, and if we could spare you to keep a covert watch upon de Malfleur’s manor … Might we yet be reduced to that, my lord?’

  ‘We might, Catchpoll. We might. Let us see what the morrow brings first.’

  He was w
ondering if he dare let Christina know that they were, admittedly in desperation, now looking at de Malfleur as a serious suspect. He was not sure whether she would applaud, berate him for not doing so from the beginning, or turn inward and silent from the memories it gave her. She would have to know about the death of the reeve of Wich, and he knew that would be a cloud over their evening.

  As it was, he managed to avoid all mention of de Malfleur, and she took the news of the latest murder better than he had expected. She had met Walter Reeve at various times, but did not know the man as a personality. Bradecote obviously did not give her details of the manner of the man’s death, but she showed interest in the killer being that same man who had sold Corbin’s horse and who wore his scabbard, and possibly his sword.

  ‘It is odd, but I bear a grudge against him for that, though he did not fire the arrow. It is a foolish thing, for sense says that whether one man or another took those things when Corbin’s soul had departed the body is immaterial, and yet it angers me. Would it make him complicit in the crime? Would he, will he, hang for Corbin also, when you catch him?’

  ‘You have confidence that we will? Just at this moment I wonder, though it has been a second bad day, and I am weary. I keep blaming myself for the fact that Walter Reeve felt he had to prove this alone and not bring the information to me first. I had been so dismissive, because of all the false and foolish leads.’

  She looked at him, touched by his guilt, his humanity. No man she had ever encountered would have felt that.

  ‘Guilt can be a dangerous thing, my lord. It can feed upon itself, make a minor failing into a major sin, turn one from going forward and leave one wallowing in a regretted past. I speak as one who knows it well, but if you let the guilt do that it will hinder you in your search for justice for Master Reeve, and that is your duty, to him and to the law.’

  She spoke gently, but her words had weight. They sat in the hall, though she would have as happily had him in her solar, but he did not trust himself where none might enter without a knock. His fingers twisted the cup of hot wine upon the table, and at which he had been staring, but then he turned to look at her, fully, a half smile on his face.