Marked to Die

by Sarah Hawkswood

  ‘I am afraid there are too many who witnessed it, my lady.’ Catchpoll sounded regretful.

  ‘Serjeant Catchpoll is right.’ Bradecote laid his hand upon hers. ‘There is no help for it. And if we do not show he was flesh and blood, then we will have tales of ghostly archers along the Salt Roads and responsible for every loss, accidental or otherwise, for generations.’

  ‘Then I will say what happened here, that he saved me, that he had justice for Ivo of Clent, that he …’

  Bradecote was shaking his head, and she frowned. He did not want her to see what might happen in Wich. If the townsfolk were vindictive, the corpse might not receive good treatment. He had seen women spit upon bodies, and worse. She, who had forgiven, would be hurt by it.

  ‘You cannot forbid me, my lord.’

  Her expression was mulish, yet he still found her enchanting.

  ‘No, but I would suggest most strongly that you stay where I will take you, in the church, until I come to take you home to Cookhill. You can pray for Aelward’s soul, which will do him more good than declaiming over his body. We will tell everything that happened, so that the good of his end is known also. I do not command, for I have not that right, not yet, my lady,’ and his eyes glittered in a way that sent an excited shiver down her spine, ‘but please do as I say. I request.’

  ‘And I can refuse you nothing,’ she whispered, very, very softly.

  One of the de Malfleur men, a household servant from his unwarlike demeanour and cowed expression, appeared and diffidently enquired as to what would happen.

  ‘My lord, I ask because we are lordless, and because the men-at-arms are most likely to drink all the ale in the manor, and steal what is worth the stealing in its confines, be it livestock, goods from the hall or the maidservants from the kitchen.’ He looked to lady FitzPayne and then the undersheriff. ‘Whatever they had to put up with as servants, my lord, they have not been at risk from a drunken rabble of men who have nobody to control them.’

  The man put it as delicately as he could, though he knew that the lady must, from her own experiences at the manor, have a good idea of his meaning. Bradecote frowned. The men they had brought from Cookhill, and he gave silent thanks for Catchpoll’s good sense in getting him to bring them, would give them enough to get their prisoners safely back to Wich, but he would not care to leave a small number here, especially since they were the average sort of men, not the naturally belligerent type that de Malfleur encouraged.

  ‘We will decide in the morning,’ he announced, ‘for we should not reach Wich in daylight anyway if we departed now.’ He turned to his serjeant. ‘Catchpoll, the men-at-arms are to be kept in their chamber, and with guards upon the door, in watches.’

  ‘My lord,’ Christina’s voice was brittle, ‘I would rather sleep in the hogescote with the swine than in that hall again.’

  ‘I hope that will not be necessary.’ He smiled but knew she was perfectly serious. ‘Would you concede to take your rest in the buttery? The household servants could remain in the great hall, where they would feel more secure, and we could bed down in the passage between the two well enough.’ He coloured. ‘I mean Catchpoll and myself in the passage … not … and you in the buttery.’ He floundered, and Catchpoll hid a smirk. ‘I mean that you need not enter either the great hall or solar again and will sleep protected.’

  She nodded, biting her lip, and her fingers, still upon his arm, squeezed it in thanks.

  ‘The corpses, my lord? Should they go in the chapel here?’ Catchpoll sought a command.

  ‘Not de Malfleur,’ declared Christina, her voice hard and firm again. ‘He never used it in life, not other than as a place to sin.’ She recalled the stolen kisses that had earned his exile. ‘And it would be unfair to place Aelward next to him. Let the Archer have the chapel to himself.’

  It meant little in reality, thought Bradecote, but it would give his lady ease.

  ‘The bodies can go upon trestles, for I do not wish to present them rat-bitten in Wich, the Archer as my lady dictates, and de Malfleur,’ he looked at the corpse with the one eye wide in surprise, and the other arrow-filled, ‘anywhere under cover, an outbuilding will do.’ He spoke then again to the servant. ‘Have the household cook prepare a meal.’

  ‘Yes, my lord.’ The relief in the man’s voice was audible. ‘Straightaway, my lord.’ He was glad to have simple authority to obey.

  Catchpoll disappeared to make arrangements for guards and duties, and set Walkelin to secure Reginald and the other prisoners, though not close enough that they could show their reaction to him having placed their necks in the noose.

  ‘You understand?’ whispered Christina, looking up into Bradecote’s face. ‘I couldn’t …’

  ‘No, I understand, and I do not want you to have to revisit the past. I want it cast into the fire and forgotten, and for your life to start from now.’

  She sighed. He did understand, miraculous as it seemed, and a great burden of misery and guilt and fear sloughed from her.

  She would not even eat within the great hall, and so Hugh Bradecote took his meal with her in the unusual surroundings of the buttery. Neither, it had to be said, cared a jot, or could afterwards say what they had eaten. It was enough to be quiet and alone together. He was conscious of not wanting to act the lover in this place or in such circumstances, though he knew neither Catchpoll nor Walkelin would spread word of their intimate meal, and so they talked, of small things, not all private; of favoured dishes; of childhood memories; of baby Gilbert. He saw her eyes soften in the candlelight when he told her of his son’s imperious demands for food, and how the baby had both wet nurse and nursemaid wrapped around his tiny, pudgy finger.

  ‘They are so strong in grip, baby fingers,’ he said, wonderingly. ‘I could lift him from his cradle with his fingers gripping mine, and would have done so had I not been scolded like a five-year-old by his nurse. And in my own solar!’

  She laughed, and their hands touched, finger to finger, and entwined.

  ‘You will love him?’ He did not really pose it as a question.

  ‘As his mother, and not just because I have no child to love, and he no mother, but because he is your son, because …’ The words struck her as inadequate to convey her feelings, and yet momentous. ‘Oh, am I mad? Can such feelings spring so fast from such sorrowful beginnings, from the anger, from the pain?’

  ‘How can I judge,’ he whispered, smiling, ‘if you do not tell me which feelings?’

  She coloured, and lowered her eyes.

  ‘They are so strange and new and … overwhelming.’

  ‘Tell me.’

  ‘When I lost Corbin’s baby, and him, I felt cold inside, almost as dead as them. And yet here I am, so alive and … You said you burnt, burnt for me. I have only burnt with anger, with loathing, only been consumed by fear and hate until now, until you, Hugh Bradecote, and suddenly I understand that it is indeed possible to burn with … love.’ She made a strange half-giggling, half-sobbing sound. ‘I have found love.’

  Then his self-control wavered, and he drew her from her seat, pulled her into his lap and held her, her head resting over his heart, until the candle guttered, and her slow breathing told him she slept deeply, exhausted by events and emotions. He laid her gently upon the pile of sacks and blankets, which was the best they could make her for a bed, and rolled himself in a single blanket across the doorway that none might enter. She slept, as he had promised, protected, and safe, in a place where she had never known safety.

  The night had been clear, and the sliver of moon had overseen a sharp frost. Bradecote woke with chilled feet, but a warm glow within, and stretched in his aching physical discomfort, sighing. This he instantly regretted, as the cold rushed in through the gaps he created in his blanket. The smile, however, remained. He tried to concentrate upon what had to be done that day, taking into account the reaction of the people in Wich. Keeping them from meting out their own justice might be the most difficult part.

&nbs
p; He heard Catchpoll mumbling discontentedly, as his older, stiffer joints objected to moving, and then scratch himself. Reluctantly, he rose, and poked his head around the door into the hall, where the servants slept, perhaps, he thought, in some relief at the loss of a master such as Baldwin de Malfleur. A serving wench, her cap askew upon her head, raised herself and looked blearily at him. He beckoned, and she came to curtsey clumsily before him. He bade her fetch water, should the lady FitzPayne wish to wash her face, and to bring bread, cheese and small beer for them to break their fast.

  He went out into the yard, catching his breath upon the cold, and then blowing into his cupped hands and stamping his feet to improve the circulation. His exhalations hung as dragon-breath clouds in the air. He checked that the guard upon watch had not succumbed to sleep, and was pleased to find the man alert. Corbin FitzPayne had kept sound men, who could be trusted. He was thankful for it, since even if he won de Beauchamp’s support for the match, he suspected that he would be leaving Christina on her own at Cookhill some time at least.

  An hour later, Bradecote addressed the inhabitants of the manor. The men-at-arms looked surly, the servants worried.

  ‘This manor is held no more by any of the name de Malfleur. Until such time as its lordship is decided, it shall be held by the lord Sheriff as the King’s Officer in this shire. Those who work upon this manor shall continue in their labour, and the steward shall—’

  ‘My lord, the steward departed when all was bustle yesterday, him being guilty as he thought, as the lord’s man.’ The man who had come forward the previous evening, spoke up. ‘Small loss he is, but still …’

  ‘Name yourself.’

  ‘Me, my lord? I am Will, son of Eadfrid.’

  ‘Then since you took enough charge last evening, you will act as steward, at least until such time as a new lord takes his place here.’

  ‘But what of the men-at-arms, my lord?’

  Bradecote looked at them. They had a disconsolate look now, but he remembered them in Wich, cocksure bullies who sent fear through peaceable men. He did not think many were local in origin, in fact he would guess most were the scum that Baldwin had attracted on his journey home to his inheritance.

  ‘To those of you who are prepared to remain and work upon this manor over the winter, and deal justly, I say stay, but if you want to continue as you did, then quit this shire, for if you break the peace, assuredly I will break you.’ His voice was magisterial, and there was a general shuffling of feet. ‘And do not think yourselves far enough away from Worcester that your deeds will go unknown. There was money paid to guard salt loads. Steward, give each man who departs ten days’ payment in coin, and there is the cord cut. Do not return. For those that stay, there is the chance of employ in the future and security for the winter months, with food for your bellies and a hearth to warm yourselves by. It is your decision. Make it now.’

  Catchpoll watched approvingly. The undersheriff had a good way with plain words, he would grant him that, not just in dealings with the fancier sort of folk. The group parted, with the majority seeking to find adventure elsewhere, but a fair few, with roots in the manor, or an eye to a local girl, prepared to wait and see who would take the lordship.

  A few minutes later, the three sheriff’s men, Christina FitzPayne and the Cookhill men, trotted out of Rushock, with three bound prisoners and a small one-horse cart, upon which the covered corpses of Baldwin de Malfleur and his true nemesis lay side by side.

  Christina did not look back, but instead at Hugh Bradecote.

  ‘I shall never enter those gates again, my lord, in person or in thought. I am free of it at last. It has no hold upon me now.’

  And she smiled, exultant.

  Chapter Nineteen

  They entered Wich at a walk so that everyone saw them, and on a loose rein so that it was clear there was no longer any reason for haste. Catchpoll and Walkelin brought up the rear, and the men-at-arms were arrayed on either side of the bound men and the cart. It made a statement. Bradecote was caught between relief that he could show that they had been successful and that the townsfolk could sleep at ease in their beds, and concern lest they vent their anger upon the prisoners or the dead. He had men, but not enough to prevent a crowd taking action, if only they realised their power, and he was concerned for Christina. He glanced at her profile, the nose with the merest hint of being retroussé, the curve of her lips, the lock of dark hair escaped from her coif, all framed by the fur of her hood. It was the same beautiful Christina, and yet oh so different, for there was a joy to her now, and the veil of shadow that had clung to her was lifted once and for all. He had her heart, he knew that, and it thrilled him, but her hand was not guaranteed. Cookhill was held of de Beauchamp, and as Corbin had been his vassal, the lord Sheriff of Worcestershire could influence, and in these troubled times, effectively decide, the widow’s fate. The King, even should he hear of it, had greater things upon his mind than the fate of a woman with a dower share of a minor manor or two and not held direct from the Crown. No, if William de Beauchamp gave his permission, they could be wed as soon as it was decent to do so. The pity of it was the size of the ‘if’.

  The cry of a woman, calling down curses upon the prisoners, brought him back, sharply, to the present. He heard Catchpoll’s monotone warning to the men-at-arms to keep a tight formation. He looked about him at the faces watching them.

  ‘My lady,’ he spoke softly, and did not look at Christina, ‘I would be happier if you went directly to the church. This is no place for you.’

  ‘You think I might be frightened … after yesterday I hardly think—’

  ‘I cannot guarantee your safety if the inhabitants of Wich decide to try and take the prisoners and hang them out of hand, before we can lock them away safely. I should perhaps have skirted round and taken the men directly to Worcester to await trial there, but these folk need to know for certain that the culprits are caught, and this is where they should eventually face justice.’

  ‘Will they not just wait until you go, and take their vengeance then? There is no reeve to organise the watching and guarding of them.’

  ‘True enough, but once they have seen they need not fear any more, I will get the prisoners to the castle in Worcester. They can be returned after standing trial when the Justices come.’ He did not mention the fate of the corpses. It would be quite likely they would be strung up anyway, so that all might see, and he did not give much for their chances of a decent burial. ‘Please, go on ahead to the priest. I will collect you from the church when I have spoken to the crowd.’

  She nodded, and urged her horse into a trot. He watched her, and one worry at least was removed. By the time he halted his men in the open space near the church, Christina had disappeared inside. The townspeople gathered round, a hum of antipathy circling about the undersheriff’s party. He knew he had to impose his authority before things escalated.

  ‘Good people of Wich,’ he proclaimed, ‘the men responsible for the attacks upon the salt have been taken. I bring them here that you might see for yourselves. Behind it all was Baldwin de Malfleur, the lord of Rushock. I bring you his body, and that of Aelward the Archer, who was employed by him to ensure none survived the attacks. De Malfleur did not want the salt. He wanted to create fear, and he did so. The Archer killed him for an act of treachery in the Holy Land, and surrendered his own life to save that of the lady FitzPayne. The man Reginald, who killed Walter Reeve, we took yesterday, in Wich, and he will face trial for that crime and for the salt thefts.

  ‘I bring you these, both the alive and the dead, so that you shall know there was nothing of ghosts about the events, that the archer was a mere man, and that, beyond your normal caution upon the roads, you need have no more fear to be about your business.’

  ‘Leave them here, and we will show them justice.’

  It was a woman’s voice, hard and shrill, and a murmur of approval went around the crowd. Catchpoll growled at the men-at-arms, who looked edgy.

>   ‘No, though I understand your feelings. The law must be followed, and these men must stand trial before the Justices in Eyre. If you took it all into your own hands upon this occasion, there would be no protection for any of you, in the future, if falsely or mistakenly accused.’

  ‘But they are clearly guilty.’

  ‘So might you seem, to others, friend. I doubt not their guilt, but they were not caught in the act and so must await trial, not receive summary execution. If and when the Justices say they are guilty, you will see them hang. I am Hugh Bradecote, undersheriff of this shire, and I say this before you all.’

  Bradecote spoke with the confidence of one who would be obeyed, imposing his will. There was mumbling, and shuffling of feet, and those who looked as if they might voice a challenge he looked straight in the eye until they faltered and dropped their gaze.

  Walkelin looked to Serjeant Catchpoll, who had a half smile upon his grizzled visage, and relaxed. If the serjeant was unconcerned, he could afford to be also.

  ‘Serjeant Catchpoll, you keep a guard upon the cart, though any who wish to see proof of what I have said may look upon it. Walkelin, the prisoners are under close guard and are not to be harmed, understood?’

  ‘Yes, my lord.’

  Catchpoll dismounted and jerked his head at a man-at-arms to do likewise. They stood at the tail of the cart. Nobody moved for a minute or so, it was like a tableau, then a woman edged forward from the crowd, and went to peer at the bodies. In an odd combination of gestures, she crossed herself and then spat upon the ground. Bradecote took a silent breath of relief, and dismounted. He walked slowly and deliberately across to the church, knowing he was watched, and opened the creaking door.

  The atmosphere within was cool and calm. Christina was on her kneels at the chancel step, and he stood for a moment, unwilling to disturb her prayers. She had much for which to offer orisons. She must have heard him, however, because after a minute or so she crossed herself, rose, genuflected and turned to come down the nave towards him.