Reginald focussed on the undersheriff’s face, which told more than he would have wished. It said to Reginald that this really mattered to the man, and though he knew it would cost him more pain, the knowledge that he could see the sheriff’s officer at a disadvantage a bit longer gave him resolution. At the back of his mind was also the reception that the erstwhile lady of Rushock would get from Baldwin de Malfleur. He remembered her from the days when she was mistress of the hall, knew the way his old lord had treated her, and recalled the vicarious pleasure it had given him. Be she never so well born, a woman was just a woman to be used. Knowing the lord Baldwin, he recognised that the undersheriff had more cause to look worried than he could possibly know. He kept his mouth shut.
‘I asked you a question,’ Bradecote spoke quietly, ‘but you do not answer. Unwise.’
Reginald braced himself as well as he could for the blow, but was so winded by the force, he felt for a moment as if he would never breathe again. This man would kill him if he had to, no doubt, and he had yet a delay.
‘Home,’ wheezed Reginald, which was a sort of truth.
‘To Cookhill?’
Bradecote could not see why she would have ridden back there, not come to him.
Reginald nodded, so that the false truth became a complete lie. At heart, he knew his chances of escaping the noose, or a plain lynching, were slim. He had no love for Baldwin de Malfleur, would not give his life for him, but there was something to be said for knowing the law would arrive too late. Over the years, the de Malfleur love of twisting the knife had spread to the minion.
‘You lie. She would have come to me.’ Then suddenly he thought what her departure meant. If she had gone somewhere it must be somewhere she knew, and the chestnut horse had been seen heading north. It fitted; he wished it did not, but it did. ‘Oh my God, she’s gone to Rushock.’
He heard the slight hiss from Reginald.
‘Catchpoll, this,’ in his frustration and fear he kicked viciously at Reginald’s legs so that they gave way and the man cried out at the pain in his arms, ‘comes with us. Walkelin!’ the yell reverberated through the stable and a pony kicked out in surprise.
Walkelin poked his head around the door.
‘Yes, my lord?’
‘Our horses, and fast.’
‘Yes, my lord.’
The face disappeared and they could hear the sound of running.
‘How much of a lead has she got on us, Catchpoll?’
‘Lot less than an hour, as I reckon, my lord. If we ride swift, and she does not, we might yet overtake her. But we have but six men, my lord, and de Malfleur has men-at-arms to spare.’
‘How many would die for him?’
‘Matters not, my lord, if he offers good coin to whoever puts us out the way.’
It was true. Bradecote tried to think straight.
‘I only ask about numbers because I will be alongside you, my lord.’
‘We bluff, Catchpoll. We bluff, and we pray.’
They could hear the sound of horses.
‘Cut him down and bring him with us, on the swiftest pony you can see here, and give him into Walkelin’s charge.’
Without looking at Reginald, Bradecote strode to the door and gave Walkelin his orders.
‘I don’t care if you flog your beast to death to get some speed out of it, Walkelin.’ He swung himself up into his saddle. ‘We have to reach Rushock fast. The lady FitzPayne’s life depends upon it.’
Walkelin nodded, tight-lipped. After a minute, which seemed an age, Catchpoll emerged from the stable with Reginald, wrists bound and roped upon a serviceable dun pony.
‘This beast might delay us, my lord.’
‘I know, but …’ Bradecote, his horse on the fret as it sensed his agitation, looked at the prisoner, and spoke with a calm deliberation.
‘If she has come to harm, I swear upon oath, I will kill you so slowly, Hell will seem a respite.’
Chapter Seventeen
It was impulse, a white-hot wave of outrage and anger, which sent Christina FitzPayne on the road to Rushock, to a place she had thought never to have to enter again. It was as she had said, ever since his name was first mentioned: it came back to de Malfleur, and nobody had taken her seriously, even Hugh Bradecote. It was as though her life would never be her own and untainted while the canker of the de Malfleur influence remained, and she wanted to excise it, and do so herself. She had told the undersheriff if she found whoever killed Corbin before him, there would not be enough fit to string up afterwards. In the turmoil of what had followed these last ten days – sweet Heaven was it only that long? – she had forgotten her oath. Seeing Reginald with Corbin’s sword, dishonouring it by his wearing of it, that had returned. She knew Bradecote needed Reginald so that he might find the Archer, or she would have drawn that sword and hacked at him with it, piece by piece, with the unflinching cruelty of a woman goaded beyond measure. The knowledge that the whole series of evil events stemmed from Baldwin de Malfleur filled her with the white-hot anger of vengeance as only one who had suffered long years at de Malfleur’s hands, as she had, could know. That she had Corbin’s sword hanging from the saddle did not mean she felt ‘armed’, and she wondered what she would do when she encountered Baldwin, for how she would get close to him had not entered her train of thought. All she knew was that he had been responsible for Corbin’s death, for the little scrap that would have been Corbin’s heir and had ended in blood, for all these wicked deaths, and she was going to kill him, preferably not quickly. It was vicious, vindictive and visceral, and she took her horse at a pace to which it was scarcely accustomed, urging it to a speed that astounded a pedlar who had to leap from her path. That a lady should travel so fast, and one unattended, made him wonder what lay ahead of him, and so he took his ease for a while and ate a heel of cheese, so that he did not simply walk into whatever had caused the lady’s flight.
The distance should have given her time to come to her senses, even as she was forced to lessen the pace a while to let her horse get second wind, but it rather stoked her wrath. It was Nemesis herself upon a sweat-flecked horse that galloped into the bailey at Rushock and skittered to a halt. The men-at-arms lounging between their duties did not think of the lady as a risk, merely some overheated and overwrought woman come upon an urgent errand. That she should come to de Malfleur at all was a surprise, but they shrugged, and simply pointed to the hall when she demanded to know the whereabouts of their lord. They did not watch her dismount, nor saw the sword concealed in the folds of her skirts.
She trembled, so fired with anger, and at the same time filled with a gut-loosening panic at entering the hall where once she had been mistress. Her ghosts crowded in upon her, ghosts of misuse and cruel torment, of babes lost to death and, in some ways worse, to the evil of their sire’s blood, of misery so profound that she had prayed in the little chapel where Arnulf never went, that God would be merciful and strike her dead, for death was preferable to her existence. As the door of the hall creaked open at her pushing, she felt as besmirched as in that old life, tainted, degraded, but this must be done. Her courage rose once more.
Baldwin de Malfleur had been hawking, not with any great success, and had returned home morose and inclined to find fault with everything and everyone. In truth, he was bored. Even the salt thefts were starting to bore him, for they did not give him any scope for action himself. He wondered whether returning to the Continent might be more exciting, for there were feuding lords aplenty and strife in Normandy and Anjou that would give scope for intrigue and devilry. England, even with the claim and counterclaim of King and Empress, seemed dull and flat.
He had yelled for more wine, and was expecting a harassed and suitably frightened serving girl. What entered was a Fury, almost spitting her words at him.
‘Murderer. Foul, scheming, evil … bastard!’ screamed Christina FitzPayne, leaving all ladylike language behind.
Baldwin de Malfleur raised an eyebrow, and smiled. This was
going to enliven a boring day.
‘The fair Christina, with words of salutation upon her pretty lips, oh, and a sword in her hand. How charming of you to call, and so unexpected too.’ He did not see it as a great risk.
His calm enraged her the more. She made a growling noise in her throat, and her free hand clenched into a fist.
‘If I had known you were coming I would have laid on entertainment, jongleurs, perhaps, or a player upon a pipe.’
‘Why?’ she cried.
‘To keep you amused, of course, unless you thought I might supply you with more private “amusement”. Widowhood has its drawbacks, hasn’t it?’ He could not resist feeding her incandescence. ‘And I am sure I could oblige.’ The smile was so lecherous she felt sick.
Her eyes widened in outrage.
‘Why the killings? It makes no sense.’
‘Oh, does it have to do so? I did not realise. You see, you think like so many people, don’t you? You think “why?”, whereas I think “why not?”’
‘But …’
‘Arnulf, of so blessed memory, had a reputation for, shall we say, bluntness? Everyone says “You are Arnulf de Malfleur’s brother”, not “you are Baldwin de Malfleur”. Now, I could simply rampage around as he did, effective, but really not very clever. He did rampage rather a lot, didn’t he? However, I am the more subtle member of the family. My men have been escorting salt carts this last week, profiting me just enough to keep them in my employ, and giving me the delight of being called “the noble lord de Malfleur who saves the salt”. I just love the irony, do not you? And even if I am found out, and depart this very dank and dismal shire, I shall be remembered as far more the devil than lumbering Arnulf.’
‘You will not depart this shire, but life itself. I shall kill you.’
The words came out through gritted teeth, but he only laughed.
‘Indeed, my lady. With what? Your bare hands or that heavy sword? I never thought you a dame who liked a man’s weapon.’ The leer returned. ‘That is no use to you. Will you kick and scratch me to death? Or rather lash me with that tongue of yours? I could give it better employment.’
He was mocking her, but she was struck by the realisation that lunging at him, prepared as he was, would achieve nothing, and it made her growl in frustration.
‘Oh dear, was fiery vengeance so strong it forgot so much as a weapon you can handle? Here, this is’ – he drew a dagger from his belt and tossed it to her, close enough so she jumped lest it strike her – ‘something that might help.’
He had created a dilemma. Did she abandon the sword and take up the dagger alone, ignore it or take it up with one hand and keep the sword in the other? He knew what he had done, and grinned.
She dropped the heavy blade and picked up the dagger, swiftly, wondering if she could throw it with any force and accuracy. Tackling a man prepared was likely to prove a failure. Hot tears of frustration salted her cheeks, and suddenly she snapped. It did not matter that she might fail – would fail – she just wanted to kill him. She launched herself with a high-pitched snarl, but he stood with remarkable speed and grabbed her wrist as she struck downward.
‘You know someone should have taught you, my dear, that the downward blow is always easy to parry, and if you want to use a knife effectively,’ he twisted her wrist so that the knife fell to the floor, ‘you should always use it to strike upwards.’
He bent to pick it up with his free hand. He had not bothered to grab her left hand, since he controlled her quite effectively by the threat to break her arm. What he had not reckoned upon was her bringing her knee up, sharply, into his face as he bent down.
He grunted in pain and fell back, bleeding from the nose, but was not deterred from picking up the knife. He stood, and wiped his sleeve across his face. He stared at the blood with some surprise, then to her horror, smiled at her. It was not a pleasant smile.
‘Oh, so you can fight dirty, after all. Perhaps that was unwise, though, for, you see, I am still here, still have the knife, and you have nowhere to run.’
She backed away instinctively, but found herself against a trestle table. He grinned in a vulpine way, and snatched her left hand, pulling her close and twisting the arm, this time up her back. She felt his breath on her cheek and tried to turn it away.
‘Oh no, fair Christina, you did that once before, long ago, but this time there is none to tell.’
He held the blade to her cheek so that she had to look back at him or feel its edge. He bent and kissed her, without lust but simply to hurt her. His hand behind her grabbed at the veil and pulled, tearing the fine fabric and revealing her dark, plaited hair. She squirmed, but could do nothing, pressed against the table so that the knee she had used previously to good effect, was rendered useless. He set the knife aside beyond her reach. After all, his strength alone would do his work now. Then he reached round with his now empty hand to grasp her wrist and free his left to loosen the plait. It was all part of a slow violation of her dignity.
‘You are an added bonus, Christina. I had not thought you would be part of this.’
‘You are a loathsome cur,’ she whispered.
‘No doubt. I do not find the appellation offensive. Indeed, it might be said to be a compliment. I wonder how I will compare to Arnulf? He was a “hungry” dog as I recall.’
The tremor that ran through her, pleased him, fired him. She felt sick and wondered if she could provoke him enough to end it with the knife before the nightmare became a reality.
‘Once I could not have you, and you cost me years of exile, for which you will pay over these next sweet hours. But now, I take what I want, as I want, use you until you are no longer worth the having, and then, if you are lucky, I will kill you.’ His voice was soft, and the more chilling for it.
She castigated herself for a fool. How could she think that happiness could be hers, that she had a future with a man who respected her, who would show her love, when her destiny was bound to this place, this blood. There was no future, there was only dishonour and the release of death. She closed her eyes and took in one long last gasp of free, untainted air.
Then there came the sounds of shouting outside, and de Malfleur stiffened.
‘Our “liaison” may have to wait, my dear,’ he whispered, and propelled her from the hall, into the passage, and thence into the yard.
Undersheriff and serjeant rode in at the gallop, marginally ahead of their men, and made a good impression of arriving with many followers, even though they numbered but half a dozen and were outnumbered two to one. Catchpoll yelled to unseen support to ‘remain without’ to prevent anyone leaving, and called upon the men at the rear to catch up. It was a good act, and bought them time.
Bradecote and Catchpoll yanked their bridles round to get their mounts to a sudden halt, and, circling, demanded, in the King’s name, to see the lord de Malfleur. A man-at-arms reacted instinctively to command and simply pointed to the hall, even as the Cookhill men fanned out at Walkelin’s command to block the gateway for real. Before the sheriff’s officers could cross the bailey, de Malfleur emerged from the hall with Christina before him, his knife now pricking the skin just below her ear.
‘Ah, the ever delightful Serjeant Catchpoll and the oh-so-worthy undersheriff. Were you looking for me?’ He glanced down at Christina. ‘You did not say I would be receiving more guests, my lady.’
‘Let the lady FitzPayne go free, de Malfleur.’
‘Oh, do be sensible, Bradecote. Why should I do that? I rather think she is my pass out of here. You see, you are going to get off your horses and stand very still right where you are now, and if you draw your swords or step towards me I shall slit the lady’s pretty white throat, from ear to ear. Pity, for that was only to be the very last part of our charming tryst, and I was so looking forward to it, all of it.’
He made to mime the action and at the end just nicked the skin so that she let out a small cry and blood dribbled down the side of her pale neck. He was watching Brade
cote closely to see his reaction. It was all that he had hoped. So the undersheriff was the stupidly noble sort and had an eye to the lady, did he? That was all the more to his advantage. The sheriff’s men dismounted as ordered, slowly, Walkelin half raising a hand so that the Cookhill men-at-arms remained still mounted. Unless de Malfleur specified it, they were better upon horseback, even at a distance. In fact de Malfleur seemed to disregard them, focussing on the lord Bradecote’s discomfort. De Malfleur continued, still sounding calm.
‘You wouldn’t want that now, would you, Bradecote? Is the lady to your taste? Would you like to have her? Perhaps I have already?’ He rested his cheek next to hers and grinned. A muscle twitched in Bradecote’s cheek. De Malfleur was enjoying himself, the adrenalin coursing through him. The loosened hair was just enough of a tease to put that doubt in the undersheriff’s mind.
Christina tried to reassure him with her eyes, but only succeeded in looking as if she pleaded for rescue.
‘What I have not yet found out, having been engaged in “other activities” since dear Christina’s arrival,’ he leered provocatively, and heard Bradecote grind his teeth, ‘is why you have all eventually come to my door. I am merely curious.’
‘Your man killed the reeve of Wich.’
‘Did he? I wonder why. Not that the reason interests me. So you have taken the erstwhile efficient Reginald, have you? You may hang him, if you like. I do not mind, though I admit I would have hoped he could keep his mouth shut and prevent this untimely intrusion.’
‘He did not need to speak, for lady FitzPayne recognised him with her husband’s sword at his belt.’
‘Ah, he was not worthy to have that, clearly. I can see why that might upset you, my dear.’ He glanced down. ‘So that was why you had the sword. It makes a little sense.’ He looked back at Bradecote. ‘Though if my man has taken this, er, reprehensible course, it cannot be proved that I knew of it.’
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