Marked to Die

by Sarah Hawkswood

  ‘You are the voice of wisdom, my lady. Every undersheriff should have you at his elbow.’

  ‘There are many undersheriffs, my lord. I think,’ she paused, and fought the instinct to lower her gaze, ‘I would be best at the elbow of but one.’

  There, she had said it, made her position clear, brazenly, boldly. How much more forward could a woman be and keep even the vestige of honour? Her eyes searched his for his response, and what she found made her heart thump. He took his hand from the cup and reached for hers, holding it so the thumb stroked slowly across the back of her hand. The skin was smooth and soft. The hand was halfway to his lips when he suddenly disengaged, hearing a servant enter to clear the remnants of the meal. She hurriedly moved her hand, which appeared frozen in space, in an airy gesture accompanying a vacuous and general remark in a voice that mocked itself. They contained themselves while the wench remained, but upon her departure, gave themselves up to embarrassed laughter, though it joined rather than divided them. They were certain of each other, except when they doubted themselves, so keen to be right that they feared they must be wrong, and the words ‘too soon’ hung in the air, though their instincts clamoured otherwise. It made them the most timorous and tentative of lovers, but every word and silence, every touch and almost touch, was redolent of love. There was just the hesitation to give in to its dictates.

  Bradecote knew his own mind, knew also that if he gave in to physical passion, he would be swept away by it, and that however much she desired that also, she would regret it, feel that very guilt she had mentioned. He wanted a future with her in which there was no guilt about anything that had happened before. He wanted her to walk into his arms unfettered by her past, and if he lay with her, in Corbin FitzPayne’s bed, and within a month of his killing, she would know guilt. Therefore he held himself in check, which had, at first, confused her.

  Men took what they wanted, she knew that, and she knew, with every fibre now, that he wanted her, her body as well as her heart. That the two were contained in the same thought was a thing of wonder, and when first it hit her, she was cast into self-doubt by his contained response. She feared she was inventing what she wanted him to feel, but with every meeting these last few days she grew in faith, and in amazement at his consideration and self-control. Self-control and a man; she shook her head at the unlikely combination, but it made her love him the more, and she dared to think that word now.

  After the laughter came the silence, companionable yet strained by what was not said, by what did not take place. Bradecote finished his wine, self-consciously, knowing she watched him. As he set down the cup and was about to rise, she spoke.

  ‘My lord, might I ask to come with you, to Wich, tomorrow? I am bound within all this, yet have perforce sat at the edges of it. I would like to stand instead in the middle, when the end unfolds.’

  A voice in his head told him it was unwise. Endings were not tidy, usually frantic and messy, and he would spare her that. Alternatively, she would see just how much they were casting about in desperation. Well, if she saw him as less the hero, at least she would see truth.

  ‘I would not recommend it, my lady, for I fear you will have a day of boredom, and my pride will be pricked, for you will see how inept and frustratingly unsuccessful I can be, hunting for even a described man. There is no indication as yet that we are “at the end” at all. We advance by steps only. You may lose faith in me completely.’

  The accompanying smile gave the lie to the last part.

  ‘I shall bear that in mind, my lord, but sometimes we do not know which is the last step that brings us to our goal,’ she replied, twinkling through the mock seriousness. ‘Take my men-at-arms with you, too. If they are given both horse and rider’s description they are more eyes to seek, and employment will do them good rather than gloomy idleness here.’ She sighed. ‘I doubt not they would like to feel involved in finding their lord’s murderer.’

  Bradecote rubbed his eyes with one hand. He was not sure they would be any real help, but it would clearly please her.

  ‘But you need your rest, my lord, and I will leave you to it.’

  She stood up, and he did so with her, and would have taken her arm to the door as before, but she set her hand lightly upon his and shook her head, smiling.

  ‘Sleep well, my lord.’

  On impulse, she stood upon tiptoe and brushed his cheek with her lips, then hurried to the solar door without looking back at him. He stood, still as an effigy, with a smile upon his face.

  Chapter Sixteen

  Riding with Christina beside him felt good, thought Bradecote, as they made their way to Wich in the crisp cold of the morning. He had helped her up into the saddle, looked up into the face framed in the fur-lined hood, and seen a smile that warmed the chill of an October day as if it had been midsummer. Catchpoll would have hung back, but Christina was determined that her presence should not interfere with their routine, and also a little self-conscious lest she show her burgeoning feelings before the serjeant. The undersheriff therefore had Catchpoll to his left and Christina, largely content to listen, to his right. Walkelin followed behind with the Cookhill men, combining listening to his superiors, imagining the men at his back were under his command, and attempting to get his misbegotten mount to keep up.

  ‘My lord, I do not wish to be in your way, though I would like to hear of any developments. I thought perhaps I might visit Mistress Reeve this morning. I am not so foolish as not to know it will do her great credit with her neighbours and kindred if she receives a long visit from a “lady”, though I do not know the poor woman.’

  ‘That sounds a good idea. I was a little concerned, since we will be heading for the tavern, which is no place for a lady, under any circumstance.’

  ‘And if you should hear anything from those who come with condolences, my lady …’ Catchpoll looked past his superior.

  ‘Oh yes, Serjeant Catchpoll, I know, I shall immediately send word to you, if you are not all merry as mayflies in the alehouse.’

  She dimpled, and laughed as all three proclaimed their sobriety. Underneath, however, Catchpoll was doing some serious thinking, and was coming to the unpalatable conclusion that their chances of actually finding Walter Reeve’s killer, even though they knew what the man looked like, were slim. It would be beyond hope to think he would amble into Wich for all to raise a hue and cry after, though with luck he did not know that his horse would be recognised, so that perhaps he might be spotted upon the roads.

  ‘My lord, the man who killed the reeve was seen riding out to the north from Wich.’

  ‘Yes, but that was several days since, Catchpoll.’

  ‘If, and I admit it is a long shot, he went from killing Walter Reeve to giving directions to the Archer, then there are three chances out of four he was not heading straight up the north road after the killing.’

  ‘But he could have passed through or round, yesterday,’ announced Walkelin, with depressing accuracy.

  ‘Through would have been very risky, but round, yes, perhaps, if he saw the Archer in the morning. However, if he was to meet the man last night, it is possible he will strike north today. The main road is swiftest, so if he avoids the town itself, he will want to join it as soon as he can. If you have no other reason to keep us in Wich, I would like to carry on through and spend the forenoon, at least, out on the north road, a couple of miles outside of the town. If he cut round he would be certain to have rejoined the road by then.’

  ‘It is worth the attempt, Catchpoll.’ The undersheriff nodded. ‘Yes, you take Walkelin and the men, and go on and see what you can find out, even if it is that travellers heading south have already seen the horse going north. Of course, if he did meet the Archer again, another attack is planned, and we do not know where.’ He grimaced.

  Christina was biting her lip, unsure whether to ask what might be a foolish question, but then took a deep breath and posed it anyway.

  ‘Do you think this man hides in the woods?�
�

  ‘The tall, thin stranger? Possibly, but with his horse too, I somehow think not, my lady.’ Bradecote looking enquiringly at her. ‘You have a thought?’

  ‘Only that if he had been learning of the salt departures by listening at the tavern, he would be leaving late in the evening perhaps, and must therefore have had somewhere to stay in Wich, even if it was just a stable where he kept his horse. The packmen know horses. They would recall if the horse was in the town, more than the man.’

  ‘The lady has a point, my lord. The horse might be a better trail to seek than the rider.’ Catchpoll nodded approvingly.

  ‘Then after checking whether any information has come in to the tavern keeper, I will take my lady FitzPayne’s advice, and go to the stables where the packmen keep their ponies.’

  Reginald, son of Robert, was not a happy man. The night had been as unpleasant as he had feared, and the fawning hospitality of the cottar and his family had made his ill humour even worse. He liked to be treated as important, but there were limits to how much grovelling he could take. He needed to get back to de Malfleur, but his horse had a bruised heel and would be useless for several days. Reluctantly, he would have to go into Wich and hire a horse of some kind. Keeping to his character as the down-on-his-luck knight should work easily enough, and since he had always kept hooded and cloaked when eavesdropping, there was little likelihood of anyone recognising him if he held his nerve and was suitably autocratic. He took a cap edged with coney fur and set it upon his head at a debonair angle, and led his horse into Wich, an hour before noon, giving the impression of a man uncaring about whether he was seen, and was thus ignored.

  Christina had done as she intended, and gone directly to the reeve’s house. The widow was attended by an assortment of women come to commiserate, give advice, or simply be at the hub of gossip. The arrival of the lady FitzPayne caused quite a flutter, Mistress Reeve going so far as to get up from her bed, upon which she had been reclining whilst reciting her woe, and order a girl to fetch refreshment for her illustrious guest. Christina felt rather overwhelmed. Mistress Reeve, or as she already styled herself, the Widow Reeve, was certainly in a state of shock, and the enormity of her loss, in terms of how her life would be hereafter, had not struck her. She was distressed, but had sought escape from thinking about the whole thing by throwing herself into the outward signs of mourning, by ‘playing the widow’. It struck Christina that being able to come to terms with her loss in private had been a lot easier and better, for how might this dame feel when finally alone and ignored as life moved on? What words of comfort she gave sounded hollow in her own ears, but she knew the value of snobbery. The reeve’s widow would preen herself at a later date if she could claim that ‘my lady FitzPayne had said to me how similar our situations had become’, though it was a patent lie on Christina’s part. She found there was a limit, however, on how long she could keep up the pretence that she herself was in deep mourning, when inside she felt renewed and excited. She felt a little guilty, not for the lies she told the widow, but for how fast Corbin had become merely part of her past, and that even her anger and determination to have justice for her husband had become secondary to being with Hugh Bradecote, and seeing his task fulfilled. She therefore made her excuses a little earlier than she had intended and decided to go in search of the undersheriff.

  She was thinking ahead, anticipating what she might say, certainly not thinking about a chestnut horse, or a man she recognised of old. She was not sure of her direction, but thought she recalled a stable at the western end of the town and headed that way. She had just recognised her destination when she stopped with a gasp as she saw, coming towards her, one of Arnulf de Malfleur’s retainers leading a horse as described by Hugh Bradecote. Reginald, she remembered his name, seemed to have prospered, for he wore a hat that, until close inspection, looked quite lordly. Then she saw the scabbard, Corbin’s scabbard. For his part, Reginald did not see the lady until she screamed ‘murderer’. He looked in horror towards her, a snarl of anger contorting his face. A lad with a pitchfork emerged from the stable, and Reginald drew steel, but was overwhelmed by two hefty men, one wielding a sack of grain, and the other a bridle used like a flail.

  Bosom heaving, Christina approached as he struggled between them.

  ‘Murderer,’ she repeated, and slapped him hard across the face. ‘My husband’s horse you sold, my husband’s sword you wear, and you killed the reeve of Wich.’

  Reginald said nothing, but the lad with the pitchfork pressed the tines so tight against his back that he felt them prick his skin. The other townsmen growled.

  ‘Bind him, and keep him close held until the undersheriff gets here. Send about the town to find him.’ The lady had the power of command, and another lad was sent running off. As he did so she called after him. ‘And tell him I am for Rushock.’

  She looked at Reginald, and he had never seen a woman as grim. Men pinioned him, and she stepped close, lifting Corbin FitzPayne’s sword from the dirt where it lay. Then she stepped back. For a moment Reginald thought she would run him through with it, then her expression changed.

  ‘I will sully this honourable blade with worse blood than yours,’ she whispered, ‘and I want to see you hang at a rope’s end.’ She pressed the point to his cheek, and he flinched. She pushed, and the tip pierced the softness. He gurgled, and she laughed, hysterically. The men holding Reginald gazed at her with concern, but she withdrew the blade to leave his cheek streaming blood.

  ‘Remove the sword belt.’ She looked at the lad with the pitchfork. He was not going to disobey this frightening lady. She took it, sheathed the sword with a gentle hiss as it slid into its home, and turned upon her heel.

  The undersheriff had been first to the very stable where Christina later saw the man he sought, but learnt nothing. After a fruitless hour he had almost given up, when success favoured him, out towards the Feckenham road on the eastern boundary.

  ‘Nice bit of horseflesh, that chestnut,’ remarked the stable owner, ruminatively.

  ‘Did you not hear we were looking for such a beast?’

  ‘No, my lord, can’t say as I did, but I had the toothache these two days past, and wasn’t really listening to gossip.’

  Bradecote contained his impatience.

  ‘The man who stabled this horse with you, what did he look like?’

  ‘Why a tallish fellow, thin, slightly stooping walk to him. Paid well, he did.’

  ‘And did he sleep in the stable also?’

  ‘Him? No fear. He took lodging with old Avice. Deaf she is, deaf as a post, but a tidy soul, and glad of the pennies. He wasn’t here all the time, mind. He said his lord sent him hither and yon, and Wich was sort of in the centre of things, but her being deaf he didn’t disturb if he came in late.’

  Bradecote groaned inwardly. If only this had been brought to light earlier.

  ‘When was he here last?’

  ‘Oh, he left yesterday, early. He’ll be surprised to hear all the news when he comes next.’

  No, the man had no inkling at all that he had anything of use to pass on. Bradecote wondered if the reeve’s killer had gone direct to the Archer in the morning. They must surely meet by place and time, and hopefully that meeting had been later in the day or any chance Catchpoll had upon the north road was gone.

  It was nearly noon when Bradecote made his way back to the tavern, to be met with the news that Serjeant Catchpoll and ‘the lad’ had come back ‘a while back’, but had gone to the stables on the Leominster road, because someone was ‘looking for you’. Confused, but keen to find out what was going on, Bradecote set off at a run.

  He arrived, a little breathless, to find Walkelin standing outside the stables, looking alert and official. His expression was wooden. The men-at-arms stood about, idle.

  ‘What is going on?’

  ‘The man who sold the horse and killed the reeve is inside, my lord. Serjeant Catchpoll is, er, having words with him.’

  There was
something in Walkelin’s manner which indicated that whatever was going on might not be just verbal.

  ‘I had best go in, Walkelin. Where did you find him, by the way?’

  ‘We didn’t, my lord. He was taken here.’

  Bradecote did not like confessions gained by force, but the knowledge of the manner of Walter Reeve’s death made him less concerned than usual. He went in, closing the door behind him, and his eyes adjusted to the dimness which smelt of hay and horse, and now, a measure of fear.

  Catchpoll was breathing a little hard. Reginald stood, his hands bound and high above his head, the rope thrown over a beam and tied off. He stood almost upon tiptoe to prevent his arms pulling from their sockets, his face was strained, and there was blood on his mouth.

  ‘My lord, we have him, but he’s playing mute.’

  ‘We cannot simply beat—’

  ‘My lord, he was recognised by the lady FitzPayne, who had him held and sent for you.’

  ‘Well, we had no doubts as to his identity, not with that …’ He paused, as the implications of Catchpoll’s statement hit him. Christina had found him?

  ‘Then where is she?’

  A stab of panic ran through Hugh Bradecote.

  ‘That my lord, I am trying to find out. The cloth-eared fools here cannot recall where, but she said she was going somewhere. This is no time for niceties.’

  ‘No, it isn’t.’ Bradecote’s face was grim. He approached the tired and aching Reginald. ‘My serjeant has an “active” way of asking questions. I usually prefer simple words. Now I will ask in very simple words. Where did the lady FitzPayne go?’

  Reginald started to smile, which was unwise, since it changed to an exhalation of pain as the undersheriff hit him square in the solar plexus. He tried to double up but lifting his knees wrenched his arms from their sockets. Catchpoll raised an eyebrow, but looked approving. He had not thought the lord Bradecote capable of a move like that, not with him being so ‘squeamish’ about obtaining confessions.