Ordeal by Fire

by Sarah Hawkswood

  Catchpoll groaned.

  Chapter Ten

  Catchpoll would at least have been cheered by the actions of his protégé, who threw himself into his exciting undercover work with a passion. Apparently as aware as his mentor of his memorable hair, he thoughtfully took with him both a woollen cap and a floppy-brimmed hat, and purchased a supply of Widow Bakere’s best oatcakes. Thus prepared, with a short plank of wood, and a small sack slung over his shoulder, he set off towards Edgar Brewer’s.

  He found himself a likely spot with a good view of the front of the property and was fortunate in that the street opened out into an area that could, at a pinch, be termed a square, at the point where the brewer’s premises stood. It was therefore possible for him to observe the comings and goings without being in the way of passers-by. He then took the short plank of wood, cut two notches at either end with his very serviceable knife, and looped some twine around it to make a tray that he could hang around his neck. From the small sack he withdrew several little wooden animals, stylised rather than purely representational, but just the size for a child’s hand to grasp. Walkelin was a whittler, and the results of his labours were certainly good enough to present for sale. During the morning he plied his trade, selling three or four small horses and a couple of ducks. Around noon, a couple of lads emerged from the brewer’s premises and sat against the south-facing wall to bask in the sun and partake of bread and cheese. They acknowledged Walkelin’s presence, and after a while ambled over to see what he was selling. It was easy enough for the enterprising Walkelin to then join them in their respite, sharing his oatcakes in exchange for swigs of beer, and enjoying a companionable chat until the sound of a raised voice within drew the brewer’s labourers indoors. Walkelin grinned. It had been a profitable morning’s work, and not just from the silver fourthings in his scrip; he felt confident enough to delve further. Serjeant Catchpoll would, he felt sure, applaud his initiative.

  The morning in the castle having availed them of nothing, undersheriff and serjeant took to the streets of Worcester in the afternoon, and found themselves, like birds of ill omen, eyeing potential targets for anyone who wished to set the town ablaze. Bradecote was not a town-dweller, and was conscious of a desire to get away from the bustle and stale air. He found himself thinking of being back at Bradecote, listening to the skylarks in the open skies, and then felt guilty both for dead wife, and worse, living son, whom he had shut out from his thoughts so much in the last few days. He had seen the summons to Worcester as freedom, but suddenly, today, felt it as imprisonment. Until the fire-setter was caught he would not be able to see his son, and a wave of sudden and unexpected paternal yearning washed over him. He sighed.

  Catchpoll misread the reason behind it. ‘We’ll get there somehow or other, my lord, even though our path looks dark as the pit of hell just at present. It’s the “why” that has me muddled. If we had a motive we would have “who” fast enough, but the deeper you delve into it, the more it must be the random workings of a madman.’

  Bradecote stopped, and frowned.

  ‘But as you said, just because the fire-raiser is mad doesn’t mean that his actions are random though, Catchpoll. To him they make perfect sense, but we do not see the connection because we, as far as I can tell, are not mad.’

  ‘So we really do have to think like lunatics?’ Catchpoll gave his most death’s head grin and rolled his eyes. A passing woman quickened her step and muttered under her breath.

  ‘Think, perhaps, but not try and look like them, Serjeant. It gives the law a bad name.’ Bradecote smiled wryly. He felt suddenly light-headed. The seriousness of the whole thing could only be dealt with by jest.

  They had reached the gate that gave onto the bridge across the river, and turned to return by way of the quays and wharves. Here there were not just more people, but they were also engaged in labour, not merely going ‘about their business’. Men were lifting, shouldering sacks, guiding ropes and shouting instructions. The blood of commerce flowed along the artery of the Severn, and kept Worcester vital and vibrant.

  The sheriff’s men were forced to weave their way in single file in places, and it was some minutes before they could converse.

  ‘Plenty to burn down here,’ noted Catchpoll conversationally, ‘and easy to melt into the throng, but difficult to get a fire going and not be noticed.’

  Bradecote nodded. ‘I’d like a couple of men-at-arms to do a special turn up and down here at night, mind. Get the castle watch on to it. It would be easy to set a fire going in the dark, and as you say … plenty to burn here; wood, wool, all sorts. It would have the burgesses in far more of a flap than the death of an aged widow if they thought their trade at risk.’

  They turned up towards St Andrew’s church, getting into step once more. At the priest’s house Bradecote turned and grimaced.

  ‘You didn’t have the pleasure of meeting the priest of St Andrew’s.’

  ‘No, though I exchanged a couple of words with him at the Corviserstrete fire. He’s only come within the year, and not my parish, thanks be. The old priest, Father Ambrose, I came across occasionally, and he was firm but understanding, if you get my meaning.’

  ‘I wouldn’t think understanding is high on Father Boniface’s list of attributes.’

  At that moment the door of the house opened, and the subject of their comments emerged. Father Boniface’s eyebrows rose in mild surprise.

  ‘How strange. It is providential that you should be here, my lord Undersheriff. It has shown me the path that I must take, and I suffered from indecision.’

  Bradecote exchanged a swift glance with Catchpoll.

  ‘You see,’ continued the priest, ‘I did not know whether to report the loss … the theft … to you or not. Of course, judgement will be delivered by the Almighty for such a sin, but your presence has shown to me that the secular authority should know of it.’

  ‘Father, you have us in the dark. What exactly have you decided to tell us?’ Catchpoll tried not to grumble. He preferred simple speech to ‘holying’ about things as some priests were wont to do.

  ‘Why, the theft of a bottle of holy oil from the sacristy. I only received a new bottle last week, in anticipation of my current bottle running out. It is most worrying, because I use it for important sacraments. I cannot think why anyone should wish to steal it; it is both priceless and without price. It is for God’s work, and anything less is sacrilege.’ The priest frowned, and Bradecote felt that the furrows were habitual. Joy did not seem to feature in Father Boniface’s life.

  ‘Thank you, Father. When did the bottle disappear?’

  ‘A couple of days ago. I have put in a request for a replacement, of course. I know it cannot be a priority for you, my lord, and I was in two minds about coming to you, but there, you have appeared before me, so I have told you.’

  The priest nodded, and without waiting for any response, turned down the street and stalked away.

  ‘Happy soul, ain’t he,’ Catchpoll murmured.

  ‘Told you.’ Bradecote grinned, but then grew serious. ‘Mind you, he gives us worrying information.’

  ‘He does indeed. Holy oil soaked into a rag would help any fire and be easy to carry about without drawing all eyes.’ Catchpoll shook his head despondently. ‘Setting fire to property is not as easy as you’d think, from the outside. Inside is a different matter, of course, or with a supply of wood like the carpenter’s wood store, but if the fire-raiser wants to set a place aflame from without, well, I had been hoping that would be too time-consuming and chancy.’

  ‘He would still need more than just an oil-drenched cloth though, Catchpoll, to get most things ablaze, unless they were cloth. Solid oak would perhaps char a little on the surface but …’

  ‘I have been thinking about that, my lord. They had it easy the first two times, what with getting into the back of the silversmith’s and with the wood store, and at night, but with more men-at-arms out in the town, and the difficulty of lighting fire when n
ot inside or hidden, I am thinking if there are any more fires, they will be like your lightning, striking at night.’

  The pair headed on a meandering but purposeful course back towards the castle, each gloomily conscious that they were still reacting to events rather than taking positive action. As they drew close they were aware of raised shrill voices. An altercation was taking place before Catchpoll’s front door, and they hastened their steps to see what was toward.

  Mistress Catchpoll, very red-faced and with a besom in hand, was berating a small figure trying to defend itself against word and broom. It was little Huw’s sister, and Catchpoll swiftly intervened.

  ‘Lay off, woman, for heaven’s sake. What are you about?’

  Mistress Catchpoll rounded on her spouse. ‘How dare you, husband, have whores come to my door. For shame to drag my good name into gossip.’ She raised the broom to him, but he grabbed it firmly.

  ‘Quiet now. Let’s see to this seemly, and inside.’

  ‘Her? In my house? Never!’ Mistress Catchpoll was outraged.

  Catchpoll ignored her, and bundled her back into the house. He then turned to Bradecote and the girl. ‘Come you both in,’ he commanded, for command it was.

  The girl hesitated, and turned as if to run, but Bradecote blocked her path. He looked at her without any trace of emotion on his face, which she found peculiarly comforting. With reluctance, the girl edged into the cottage as if into the den of a wild beast.

  Mistress Catchpoll, trembling with anger, stood intimidatingly with folded arms, but at the rear of the chamber. Catchpoll sat at the two stout planks that formed a trestle table and invited the girl to sit down, but she shook her head.

  ‘You have something to tell me?’

  She nodded, and wetted dry lips, suddenly shy. Catchpoll wondered if it was his wife’s judgemental presence.

  ‘I’ve not been inside a house, a proper house, all summer,’ whispered the girl, and her eyes were moist.

  So that was it. This brought back the old life, the ordinary, everyday life of childhood that had been snatched from her. Small wonder it affected her, but best not to let her dwell on it.

  ‘Well now. What is it that you have seen?’

  ‘Last night, just when the storm began, I saw a man and …’ She paused and bit her lip.

  ‘And?’

  ‘He scared me.’ Her eyes dilated at the memory, and Bradecote frowned.

  Catchpoll was focusing on the details. ‘In what way? By what he did?’

  ‘No, I mean not exactly. What he did was odd, but it was the look on his face … horrible it was.’

  Mistress Catchpoll’s face was a blend of disgust and fascination, but her husband kept his gaze holding that of the girl, and his comprehension was quicker.

  ‘This was not a man you were with, was it.’ There was no question in the statement.

  ‘Oh no, no. I just saw him.’

  ‘Then tell us where you were and exactly what happened.’ Catchpoll’s tone was a surprise to Bradecote, for it was unexpectedly sympathetic, without any trace of a command. The undersheriff was impressed. Whether Catchpoll felt any sympathy or not, and he suspected not, he was able to portray it convincingly. The girl relaxed, and ceased twisting the loose threads of the frayed cuff of her grubby gown.

  ‘I was in a little alley off Cokenstrete, up toward the Bocherewe. The man I … I was doing business with, well, he was leaving. As he did, he and another man nearly bumped into each other. It was quite funny, really. Both stepped one way and then the other to pass each other, so it looked like dancing.’ A fleeting smile, an innocent, childlike smile, flitted across the careworn face. ‘Then the other man came on along the street, peering at the houses on the north side as though he was looking for a particular one. He stopped a bit beyond me and faced a house. He stood there for a while, wondering whether to knock, I suppose, for it was rather late to visit, and then the lightning struck and the dark was bright light for a moment. It made me jump, and him too, I think. He looked up suddenly, and that was when I was frightened. The look on his face was,’ she paused and frowned, trying to find the right words, ‘like a man who is wild drunk; dangerous and unthinking. Sort of mad. But this man was for certain not drunk, because he walked straight and with purpose, not weaving or wobbling. And his face was like Death, all white in the light, and with mad eyes.’ She shuddered at the memory. ‘As he came back along the street he looked down the alley, but I do not think he saw me, for he carried on.’

  ‘Had you ever seen him before?’ Bradecote could not resist the question, though his interruption drew a warning scowl from Catchpoll. The girl looked at Bradecote as though she had forgotten his presence.

  ‘No, my lord, never to my knowledge.’

  ‘Then just describe him to us.’ Catchpoll wanted her attention fixed and not wandering.

  ‘I can’t. It was dark and I only saw his face in that flash. He was all dark too.’

  ‘Of what height? What did he wear that was dark? A cloak? A hat?’

  ‘He was tall, yes. Taller than you,’ she averred, staring at Catchpoll. ‘Much more like him,’ she pointed at the undersheriff, ‘but perhaps not quite so tall. He had a dark cloak with the hood drawn up over his head so I didn’t see much of him. He walked well, confident I’d say, not creeping around. He had no beard and I could see his eyebrows in the light so they were not the pale sort. Does that help, my lords?’ She included Bradecote in her question, astutely thinking more largesse might be forthcoming from a man clearly of lordly status.

  The sheriff’s men exchanged glances. It did not give them an awful lot of detail about the suspicious figure, but it did give a probable target.

  ‘You did right to come to me, girl. It might be nothing, but it might as easily be important. Now if you see him again, anywhere, keep out of his sight and come to us. This is the undersheriff, my lord Bradecote. Either of us will do, but make sure you come quick, yes?’ Catchpoll proffered a ha’penny, which the girl accepted with a serious expression. She then turned her eyes to Bradecote in dumb request. It was, he decided, a clever piece of blackmail. Since Catchpoll had given a ha’penny, anything less would look mean-spirited. He ruefully handed over a silver penny. She bobbed a small curtsey, but her eyes signalled that she believed herself to have made a good deal.

  ‘You get back to your little brother, straight away now. And you really shouldn’t leave him alone at night. I take it you have him somewhere safe?’ Catchpoll was in fatherly mode.

  ‘Safe, yes, and warm too. In a stable down by the quay, where the carts and horses of one of the wealthy traders are kept. It’s the best place I’ve found yet. There’s good hay to sleep on in the hayloft.’

  ‘You take care. If it’s where I am thinking, it belongs to Mercet, who is not a generous man, nor his men neither.’

  Her face clouded suddenly, and the pinched look returned. ‘I knows that already, but we are safe enough as long as the rent is paid, see.’

  Bradecote opened his mouth to speak, and then shut it tight. The girl was not talking of a money transaction. He remembered the fair, fat features of Robert Mercet, and revulsion rose in him.

  Catchpoll did not so much as blink. ‘And who “collects” the rent, child?’

  ‘Master Turgis, he calls himself,’ her lip curled in disdain, ‘but he’s no better than a hog.’ She stared at the two men, accusing them as men in general, and then glanced at Mistress Catchpoll, whose mouth was set in an uncompromising line. Unsure whether this was indicative of anger towards herself or against the male sex, the girl made to leave.

  ‘Wait.’ Bradecote’s voice halted her, although he was looking directly at Catchpoll. ‘I will go to Cokenstrete and leave warning there. I will see you back at the castle after supper, and Walkelin too, if he is back in.’ He turned then to the girl. ‘You’ll accept the protection of the undersheriff as far as Cokenstrete? You can point out the right house to me.’

  For the briefest of moments he sensed her quest
ioning his motives, and then she nodded. The unlikely pairing departed, leaving Mistress Catchpoll to combine a diatribe on the wickedness of men against poor girls, and her annoyance at having a whore in her chamber.

  The girl did not speak a word as they made their way through the streets of Worcester. With unexpected consideration, she did not walk beside the undersheriff, but followed a few steps to the rear. She thought it respectful and also fair. In Cokenstrete she pointed out the alleyway and then the house before which the frightening stranger had stopped. As Bradecote had expected, it was the house of Simeon the Jew. The girl declined the offer of escort all the way to the stable, announcing that she would buy supper on the way. Bradecote warned her, smiling, to avoid cutpurses, and saw her slip away down a side street. That penny ha’penny would feed them for a day or so on more than just bread.

  Returning to the matter in hand, he knocked heavily upon the door of Master Simeon’s house. The same servant as before opened the door a fraction, but threw it wide with a courteous bow when he saw who it was. Bradecote asked to see the master immediately upon an important matter, and the servant led him straight into the main part of the hall and then halted, uncertain whether the situation warranted intrusion or not.

  At the end of the hall the family were about to eat. Simeon was clearly intoning prayers, and frowned as he looked up to see his visitor.

  Uncomfortably aware of the invasion of something with both a family and religious significance, Bradecote approached with apologies but firm in his determination to speak without delay. Simeon excused himself from his table and came forward to meet his unexpected and unwanted guest, his face mirroring Bradecote’s grimness.