His eyes and ears were on the alert for Serlo, but his brain was racing with thoughts. He was on approval, and doing quite well, but if he could bring the murderer of Maud Brewer to trial, he would bask in the approbation of the undersheriff and, somehow more importantly, Serjeant Catchpoll. That murder, he felt, was ‘his’. After all, it had been his work which had made the discoveries that set Serjeant Catchpoll to confirm it as murder, and the lord Bradecote and Serjeant Catchpoll were primarily involved in the hunt for the fire-raiser. He permitted himself to daydream of being lauded for his craftiness, boldness and outstanding abilities, and was only brought back to reality by the tavern keeper asking sourly if he was going to drink his ale or watch it dry up over several days. It was another beaker later that Serlo ambled in, greeting several of the drinkers in a friendly way. It occurred to Walkelin that getting Serlo out of the tavern might be opposed by his ‘friends’, so he was forced to wait, stifling the occasional yawn, until his quarry lurched gently out of the door, rather late. Walkelin took the man by the arm, but turned a friendly gesture into one of control.
It was very late when he got to his bed, but was more fortunate than his superiors.
Chapter Fourteen
The bakehouse to the rear of Widow Bakere’s small dwelling along Frog Lane was nearly always still warm and sweet-smelling at night. A tomcat, who had won the right through many skirmishes, would often doze upon the roof in between hunting the mice that scuttled about the yard. At dawn, the widow, or now, on occasions, Drogo the Cook, would make up a fresh fire in the oven, so that when it reached the appropriate temperature as judged by the flames, the fire and ash could be raked out and the morning’s loaves inserted and blocked up inside to bake in the residual heat, while Widow Bakere turned the more quickly cooking oatcakes and honeycakes on a heated hearthstone. Those who baked their own bread did so in the communal ovens owned by de Beauchamp, but there were those, like Reginald Ash, in womanless households, and those also who came into Worcester and purchased sustenance rather than brought it with them. Nesta Bakere baked for such, oatcakes and honeycakes more than loaves, and if it was not a messuage of size, it did at least bring in good profit.
Tonight, however, the fire had been relit well before midnight, and not to bake bread. The only smell was acrid and throat-catching. Kindling had been scattered over the bakehouse floor, in the small yard, and piled against the back door of the little house. The striker of flint and steel had set spark to the kindling and then clambered over the side wall of the property and into the alley. This alleyway divided the bakery, as much for safety’s sake as for a thoroughfare, from its neighbours. For a few minutes the flames grew in near silence, surreptitiously licking up the walls and timber framing, savouring their prey like silent assassins. The bakehouse was tiled, but the dwelling was thatched, and this eventually caught from the underside, charring at first and then growing red as the fingers of flame tugged and took hold of it.
It was a castle guard who caught the smell of burning drifting towards him on the night breeze. He had been half asleep even as he made his tour of the bailey walkway, but sprang to wakefulness at the sight of the red glow spreading near the eastern side of the castle.
Serjeant Catchpoll was woken from heavy slumber by the insistent hammering at his door. A hammering in the night always boded ill news. The man on his doorstep did not say anything, for the scene behind him told all that was needed. The castle guard had turned out to a man. Those not armed with hooks and rakes were formed in bucket lines and casting water at the building, from which smoke billowed at the front, while flames from the rear framed it in silhouette, black against infernal red. He scrambled into clothes.
Catchpoll saw Hugh Bradecote already directing the soldiery, and had almost got within speaking distance when a figure darted forward from the throng. Drogo the Cook, one shoe on and half dressed, was shouting incoherently at the top of his voice. Suddenly, before anyone could stop him, he charged the front door with his shoulder. The first time it merely shuddered, but on the second blow the latch inside gave way, and he almost fell into the open doorway. As he entered, a gush of smoke eddied past him. Before anyone could do more than cry out, he had disappeared within. Catchpoll half moved towards the door, but was restrained by the hand of the undersheriff gripping his shoulder.
‘If the smoke takes him,’ yelled Bradecote, ‘it’ll take any that follow. No use, Catchpoll, I’m sorry.’
That Drogo would not return was a reasonable assumption, but within a few moments a cry went up as a soldier saw movement and dashed forward. A dim shape was visible low in the doorway, and the soldier hauled at it. The cook’s bulk almost rolled out into the street, and within the clasp of his right arm was the limp form of the baker’s widow. Serjeant and undersheriff pushed their way to where the soldier, coughing and spluttering, was bending over the two figures.
Catchpoll clapped the man-at-arms on the shoulder in commendation as much as assistance, but his eyes were on the bodies. He rolled Drogo onto his back, fully expecting his friend to be dead, but in the unnatural orange light some slight movement of his chest showed that Drogo was harder to kill than expected. Catchpoll snatched a pail from one of the fire fighters and dashed it over the singed and blackened cook.
‘Here, give me a hand to sit him up,’ cried Catchpoll, heaving him under one armpit. The soldier did so, and Catchpoll commenced thumping his friend so hard upon the back that his fist ached. After some moments, Drogo caught a deep, jagged breath, coughed and retched. His eyes remained shut, but he was clearly conscious.
‘Come on, Drogo, you old bastard, keep breathing. Not dead yet.’ Catchpoll’s tattoo upon his friend’s back did not abate until the man’s eyes opened, reddened with the smoke.
‘Nesta?’
Catchpoll said nothing, but looked to where Bradecote knelt beside the slight form of Widow Bakere. Even in the dim firelight she presented a horrible sight. Her face was blackened, her clothes smouldered, and the right arm that Bradecote was laying across her body was clearly badly burnt, the skin sloughing away, leaving a patchwork of black and red. Bradecote, perhaps sensing he was being watched, looked up.
‘My lord, is she …?’
Bradecote’s face was solemn. ‘Not quite. She breathes, but badly, and the burns, well, I’m no physician but …’ He shook his head doubtfully.
Catchpoll squeezed Drogo’s shoulder. ‘She’s with us still, friend, at least at present. Now let’s get you to a cot and fetch a physician.’
‘You’d be best calling the infirmarer from the priory,’ suggested a voice close at hand. ‘They say Brother Hubert did wonders for them that was burnt in the Great Burning.’
Bradecote sent a man to the priory with the urgent request. He had another man fetch a cart in which to carry the victims into the castle. Drogo was placed in his own bed, and room found for the widow in the serving maids’ chamber. Once the injured were removed, the fire was kept in check to prevent its spread, but beyond saving the front wall of the cottage, there was little to salvage, and the fire largely burnt itself out.
As the first pale streaks of morning smeared greasily along the eastern horizon, the sheriff’s men were alone among the smoking ruins, prodding and poking in the pathetic remnants of the bakery.
‘Could have been an accident, of course,’ mumbled Catchpoll without any conviction. ‘The ovens never really get cold, or mayhap a thread of breeze caught some glowing embers from the last rake-out.’
Bradecote yawned, and inadvertently trailed a charcoal smudge across his brow with a grimy finger. ‘I wish I could believe that, but I don’t, and nor do you. If it was an accident, how did a woman who has been in the trade so long make so dangerous a mistake, and even if she did, why is there a very definite heap of ash in the yard. That could not have got there by accident, even if you say the bakehouse caught and then spread the flames to the house, and the breeze is light.’
‘I’m not saying anything, just trying to find so
me way this is not tied up with the others. Jesu, this is a right tangle, and my head’s got to the spinning stage.’
‘Best we turn in for an hour or so, then meet up. Did Walkelin bring in Serlo?’
‘He had not when I left. If he did so just after, then Serlo cannot be our man.’
‘Indeed, Catchpoll. I’ll see you when we’ve taken some rest, and maybe we’ll know then if we’ve also got more murders to solve. I wouldn’t give much for the woman’s chances.’ Bradecote shook his head, and turned back to the castle. He stopped after a few paces and turned. ‘By the by, it does at least prove that your friend the cook can have nothing to do with the fires, doesn’t it.’
‘Aye, but small consolation that is now, to me, or to him,’ sighed Catchpoll.
Three hours later, still jaded and hung about with the smell of stale smoke, Bradecote and Catchpoll stood at the end of a narrow cot. It had been hastily vacated by a sleepy kitchen maid, and was now the resting place of Widow Bakere. The elderly Benedictine brother, who had been attending her since summoned from the Priory of St Mary long before the bell for Prime, had a face of compassion blended with grim determination. Life, he would instantly aver, was in the hands of God, but his clear duty was to keep those who could be kept alive living, and to give physical comfort and some spiritual ease to the end of those who were called to death. At this moment, he was uncertain which he was attending.
The woman lay as still as if laid out for shrouding, but for the hesitant breathing and the single arm laid across her breast where two would be crossed after death. Her face was pale, with a faint tinge of blue to the lips that brought a tightness to Hugh Bradecote’s chest. Ela had looked like that, but more so. Perhaps this woman would not die, would not slip almost imperceptibly from the grip of life, but it would be in the balance for some time yet.
‘I take it she has not woken, Brother?’
‘No, my lord, and best it is so in some ways. I have been able to dress the burns, but I am not sure she would be strong enough to take a draught for the pain as yet, were she awake. Sleep is a gift from God that can bring us quietly to the gates of the hereafter, and let us take the step within without pain, but as easily draw us back without knowledge and fear. We must wait to find out which in this case.’
‘And her chances, Brother?’ Catchpoll spoke in a hushed whisper, as if normal speech alone might rouse her to pain.
‘My friend, I do not wager, but I can say she will be fortunate to recover, and think herself most unfortunate in the process. The burns are very bad to the arm, and to a degree on one side of her neck. I have dressed them with my own paste of sweet briar and cleavers, which I would replace with honey at a later stage, to keep suppuration at bay, but such wounds turn bad very easily and take long to heal. If she lives, the disfigurement will distress her, being a woman and prone to the vanities of Eve, but it will be the contraction and loss of movement that will be most disabling. The arm will not be easy to turn and twist, and turning her head will forever be difficult. Moreover, there are internal problems from breathing the foul smoke and not God’s good fresh air. I cannot get more air into her to flush out the smoke, and it chokes the lungs as soot coats the eaves. Also the heat sears the throat and makes it swell, which is another reason her breath is laboured. For this I have no cure but time. In three or four days, if she has not succumbed, I would then say she would be more like to live than die, but until then we can only pray.’
‘And the other patient?’ Catchpoll had avoided seeing Drogo until he knew how Nesta Bakere did.
Brother Hubert gave a wry smile. ‘Ah, he is strong in body, loud of voice and sinful of tongue. He has burns, but they are not so deep, and if they stay clean he will recover well enough. The sole of one foot is burnt so that he will hobble for a week or so. He will complain, as men do, more than women when ailing, but afterwards it will be forgotten, just as women do not forget. You may see him, but do not tire him overmuch. Peace aids recovery.’
They found Drogo in his own chamber. He was propped up in bed, coughing and cursing, and looking much the worse for wear but very much alive. If peace aided recovery, murmured Catchpoll to his superior, then Drogo’s would take longer than the monk envisaged. At their approach he grew silent, watching them very carefully, as if he could tell by their demeanour whether they were the bringers of bad tidings.
‘Rest easy, Drogo, my friend. The Widow Bakere may be small but she is clearly strong, for she breathes still.’ Catchpoll permitted himself a small smile.
Bradecote noted the relief crossing the injured man’s face.
‘She’s not out of danger, mind. The good Brother Hubert says it will be three or four days yet before we know, but so far the news is fair. So you can say your prayers and turn your mind to getting your smoke-addled brain to come up with something helpful for us.’ Catchpoll did not appear sympathetic, but Drogo knew him well enough to see behind the facade.
‘Ever the truth-hound, you single-minded old reprobate,’ he wheezed. ‘Well, if you find out who did this, then you’d better find out before I am back on my feet, because I swear to God, Catchpoll, if I get him he’ll die a slow and painful death.’
‘Unshriven but well seasoned?’ Catchpoll tried to be frivolous, but Drogo did not smile.
‘Yes.’ The single word had a depth of meaning.
Bradecote felt vaguely sick. Violence was one thing, but this sounded ghoulish. He had no wish to dwell on Drogo’s murderous plans.
‘Do you know if Widow Bakere’s place is leased from Robert Mercet?’
‘Aye, that it is, but I know she paid the last quarter on time and the next is not due till Michaelmas in a fortnight. She’s always been a good tenant, as was her husband before her, God rest him.’
The sheriff’s pair were relieved to hear the Mercet connection had survived, even if it was seemingly growing tenuous.
‘Who collects the rent?’
‘Nobody. It has always been her way to take it to Mercet herself. Shows she’s not afraid of him, she says. Makes no difference, as I see it, but it’s her lease.’
‘And is there anyone who might hold a grudge, against her, or indeed against you?’
‘Against her, why none of course, my lord. Never caused harm to anyone, my Nesta. As for me, I doubt many knew of our connection. We’ve been careful not to set tongues wagging, even over a goodly time, and I am not with her every night. If only I had been …’ He sighed and coughed. ‘If Catchpoll here has barely discovered us, we have done well till now.’
‘But you’ve not wed her yet. No idea of making “an honest woman” of her?’ Bradecote could see that this hit home. Drogo bridled.
‘She’s “honest” enough, wed or no. It did not seem needful, her being past childbearing, and both of us with sad memories of marriage. She lost a husband young, and two sons, and another babe that was stillborn and cost her the chance of others when she was married to Bakere. I’ve buried three wives and never seen a child I sired come to birth. We felt wedlock unlucky, but if she lives …’
Drogo closed his eyes and said a silent prayer.
‘Don’t you fret before you have to, friend. When she’s fit enough to leave the maids’ chamber, she can be brought to my place. She’ll be cared for well enough till she can start her trade again.’ Catchpoll refrained from saying how little Mistress Catchpoll had taken to the idea.
‘What trade? The bakehouse is gone and we know what Mercet is like. If he rebuilds it will be with a greatly increased rent. No, when … If … she gets well, I’ll take her to wife proper and she can live here with me. A good baker is never wasted in a castle this size.’
Bradecote and Catchpoll departed in grim mood. Walkelin met them in the bailey, and announced that he had had Serlo in the cells since late the previous evening.
‘He gave trouble all the way, last night. First he cried he was being attacked by a thief, and I would have had trouble if one of my mother’s kin hadn’t come to her door to see what the
noise was, and announced me as one of the lord sheriff’s men. Saved by an aunt! Huh! Then he tried to make a run for it as we came up along Bocherewe and I felt a right fool haring after him.’
‘He can languish in the cells a few hours more, though he could not have set the fire in the night if you had been watching him.’ Catchpoll sound regretful.
‘So why keep him, Serjeant?’ asked Walkelin.
‘Because offal like him need to learn we are more to be feared than Mercet.’
‘Ah.’
The three men walked out to the scene of the night’s conflagration. In the clear light of the September morning the remnants of Widow Bakere’s existence looked forlorn and irreclaimable. The breeze picked up flakes of wood ash and tossed them playfully before discarding them like grey snowflakes. As before, the sooty puddles, charred beams and baked daub depressed the spirits. The odd survival stood out amongst the wreckage; an iron griddle pan, a small copper scoop and a girdle clasp that Catchpoll felt dig into the sole of his boot and picked up. It was blackened and a bit twisted, but recognisable and, after a bit of spit and rubbing, revealed a small cabochon garnet set in the middle. Catchpoll grunted.
‘I’ll keep this and any other scraps that’s worth holding on to, in the hope Widow Bakere will be able to claim them. It’s not much, after what must be at least a score years living here. All she can call her own.’ He shook his head, despondently.
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