Ordeal by Fire

by Sarah Hawkswood

  Bradecote nodded, but he was not fully attending. He was trying to see the events as they must have unfurled in the darkness.

  ‘The fire was at the back, and not caused by something tossed over the wall on the chance it might catch. Therefore our fire-raiser must have climbed in, made his preparations and left once the flames took. We did not check the side alley first thing, so we’d best do so now. I’ll take the inside of the yard and you two take the outside.’

  The wall itself was something under five feet in height; enough to keep out stray curs and small children, but easy enough for a grown man. In the yard Bradecote peered carefully at the surface of the wall and the ground, though both were disguised by soot. He found a footprint, only to find that it matched his own exactly, and snorted his disgust.

  ‘Anything that was here is either burnt to ash or mixed up with our own presence this morning,’ he called. ‘Any luck your side?’

  Catchpoll’s head, which had been hidden as he bent to inspect the wall and ground, popped up. ‘There’s footprints sure enough, but not with any detail. Whoever was here was either fairly tall, or a small fellow with unusually big feet. Come over and we’ll compare ’em with yours, my lord.’

  Bradecote climbed over the wall with an ease, Catchpoll reflected, that he himself no longer possessed. The footprints were nearly as large as the undersheriff’s, but unusually narrow and with a poorly defined heel mark.

  ‘I’d stick with a tall man, probably not of stocky build, Catchpoll. Heavy-set men rarely have narrow feet.’

  ‘And it’s something you’ve noticed is it, my lord?’ Catchpoll raised his brows in mock enquiry.

  Bradecote grinned. ‘Not that I’ve made a study of it, no. But if I think of big men I’ve come across, they all had clumsy great feet. As a squire you can quite literally be underfoot, or on the receiving end of a lordly boot.’

  ‘I never thought it so tough to be a lordling. Poor little souls.’ Catchpoll shook his head and tut-tutted ostentatiously.

  Bradecote’s eyes narrowed in amusement. ‘Indeed, and I thank you for your sympathy.’ He grew serious once more. ‘Yet this does no more than confirm we are looking for the man who set the fire at the Jew’s house, for we know he was tall and leggy.’

  ‘And wore a long, dark cloak, my lord.’ Walkelin, who had played deaf to the mild jest between his superiors, put thumb and forefinger together and delicately extracted a coarse black woollen thread from a jagged crevice in the wall. He held it up for inspection, and grimaced. ‘You know, my lord, I don’t see Serlo striding around in a long, black cloak, ever, do you?’

  ‘True, and unless it smouldered for hours he could not have set this fire. But then, what is the point of a disguise if it is not to make you seem different from normal?’

  ‘Or like someone else who is different,’ added Catchpoll, which made both his companions stare at him. ‘I mean, if different men were sent to light fires but each wore the cloak to make it seem one.’

  ‘You are clutching at straws, Catchpoll,’ Bradecote sighed.

  ‘I am that, but if I go and find the girl who saw our man on the night of the storm, and see if she recognises Serlo, it makes it certain it was not him at all, and it is a tidy reason to keep him nice and worried a few hours more.’

  ‘True enough, Catchpoll, but it almost takes Mercet off our list of suspects, and, Jesu save us, what if we have been following the wrong scents?’

  ‘What else could we be missing? When it began we had two fires; now we have four. It ought to be easier, if we only look at what we have in the right way.’

  ‘Let us see Serlo, and then you try and find the girl.’ Bradecote made his decision.

  Chapter Fifteen

  They heard Serlo in the castle cells long before they saw him. The sound of his flat-toned voice, alternately pleading and threatening, floated to them. They entered the cells to find Serlo, his wrists bound, in a crumpled heap at the end of a length of chain.

  ‘Stand up,’ commanded Walkelin, but Serlo just rolled his eyes and cried innocence of all misdeeds.

  ‘Isn’t the dog obedient, Walkelin?’ His serjeant grinned, but then glared at Serlo. ‘Stand up before the lord Bradecote.’ He yanked the chain, and Serlo scrambled to his feet.

  ‘I feel dizzy. I need bread,’ Serlo whined. ‘I need water. I need …’

  ‘… to shut up moaning,’ growled Walkelin, and kicked the back of his knees so he collapsed. ‘Now you can faint and not hurt yourself as you fall.’ He looked to Bradecote. ‘He won’t hurt himself if he faints from down there, will he, my lord?’ His voice was all mock solicitude.

  ‘No, Walkelin, he will not. A wise decision.’ Bradecote spoke sombrely, but his eyes danced.

  Catchpoll was impressed; this was young Walkelin thinking like a serjeant, keeping the prisoner off balance in more ways than one. He looked down on Serlo with a contemptuous sneer, and then kicked him with almost casual violence. ‘Nice of you to come and see us.’

  Serlo yelped, and whimpered, ‘I’m an innocent man, Serjeant Catchpoll.’

  ‘Innocent!’ Catchpoll nearly choked on the laugh. ‘You was born guilty, Serlo. Our only difficulty is proving whether you’re guilty of this one particular crime. Now, let’s have your shoe off.’

  Serlo’s eyes widened, imagining some evil torture. He rolled his eyes, and cast Bradecote a look of entreaty.

  ‘Whatever it is I didn’t do it, my lord. Don’t let him maim me, I beg you.’

  Bradecote feigned boredom, and turned away. ‘Nothing too messy, Serjeant, that’s all I ask.’

  ‘Right you are, my lord.’ Catchpoll sounded as if about to enjoy a rare treat, as he bent for the shoe.

  Walkelin was unsure what exactly was going on. Serjeant Catchpoll was known to have a mean and miserable streak, as those given extra duties and demeaning tasks would verify, but Walkelin had not expected torture of suspects, even guilty ones. And the undersheriff had seemed very upright and not at all vindictive. He frowned.

  Removing the shoe from the trembling Serlo, and casting it aside, Catchpoll caught the man-at-arms’ expression and his thin lips twitched.

  ‘You keep an eye on this maw-worm, Walkelin, and I’ll be back before you could heat a hot iron nice and red.’

  Walkelin’s jaw dropped, and Catchpoll gave a slow wink, then mouthed, over the prisoner’s head, ‘If he tells us anything useful, let me know.’

  He and Bradecote left, to the sound of Serlo gibbering.

  Once outside, he nodded to his superior and smiled. ‘Thank you for that, my lord. Did me a power of good, that did. Even though we can’t get him on this, it will have been useful to make him more afraid of us than of his master. And a nice touch, the lack of interest.’

  ‘Thank you, Catchpoll. In this case I think your reading of the man quite accurate. But for reference, I do not approve of confession by force. There is too much scope for error.’

  ‘Quite, my lord, and a confession under duress does not count under the old King’s laws, so I only use it in really exceptional circumstances.’

  ‘No, Catchpoll. On any investigation where I am involved it will not happen at all, however “exceptional” the circumstance. Be clear on this.’ There was no levity in the undersheriff’s voice.

  ‘As you command, my lord.’ Catchpoll’s smile died. He disliked having parameters put upon his actions, and made a mental note to be careful that Bradecote did not see his less genteel methods in action.

  Catchpoll headed into the busy streets of Worcester and Bradecote went to ask Drogo if he had seen anyone loitering near the bakery and wearing a long, black cloak. As he expected, the answer was negative, and he returned to the cells.

  ‘Has his fear loosened his tongue to give anything of merit?’ Bradecote enquired quietly, when Walkelin came to him.

  ‘Not sure, my lord. He rambled on about how influential his master was, and hinted that Mercet had the ear of Earl Waleran, though I think that mere fancy. He did say
as how Mercet was hoping to clear the hovels down by the river, and put up more warehousing, though I will be bound Serlo would find another place for his sister. Not that he, Mercet, was thinking of burning ’em out, just leaning on those too weak and poor to resist bully-boy tactics. I never knew this went on in Worcester, my lord. Such meanness by a man who has so much. I tell you, if the lads in the guardroom heard it, well I wouldn’t give much for Mercet’s own property staying upright.’

  ‘Best not let it be known then, Walkelin, because lawlessness cannot be allowed from those within the castle. If the sheriff’s men misbehave, what can we expect from the common folk?’

  Walkelin looked disappointed.

  ‘Mind you,’ the undersheriff suddenly brightened, ‘what you say may yet have a good use. It is we who could “lean” on Mercet over this. If we let him know we know what he is about, and suggest what would happen if the soldiery found out, that could well put paid to this particular scheme. Yes, I think this will make Serjeant Catchpoll a much happier man. Well done, Walkelin.’

  The young man looked cheered, and a faint blush tinged his cheek at the praise.

  Serjeant Catchpoll was in need of cheering. He was looking hard enough for Huw’s sister, but his mind was not fully on the task. The thought that Mercet might not be behind the fires after all filled him with gloom, and worried him at the same time, as it did the undersheriff. Mercet was a connection, and they had found no other. Had his loathing of the merchant blinded him to some other thread that pulled all together? A small voice in his head said that he was missing something. He had kept trying to ignore it, but it would not go away, and its words now seemed to hold true.

  In part this touched his pride. He was Serjeant Catchpoll, who knew Worcester inside out. This was his place; these were his people, criminals and innocent alike. He knew those who committed crimes and could even select those most likely to be victims of crime; he knew most of the feuds and grudges between families, and tradesmen, and even parishes. Yet here were events he could not link. He turned the thought over and over until he felt almost dizzy. What was there that had given rise to these events happening now? And why had he no inkling of it? Two words, a germ of an idea, stirred in his brain, but gave rise to questions he could not begin to answer. In desperation, he tried to concentrate purely on the matter to hand.

  He espied Huw, apparently making friends with a mangy, flea-riddled cur of indeterminate colour and decidedly malodorous, matted coat. The child did not notice Catchpoll’s approach until his new canine friend, with uncanny intuition, adopted a belligerent pose and began to growl, its hackles raised. Huw turned, and jumped guiltily. It was one of Serjeant Catchpoll’s unnerving attributes that he could make the most saintly feel they had erred.

  ‘I wasn’t stealing him, my lord,’ piped Huw, plaintively.

  ‘I know that, boy. I was looking for your sister. Is she hereabouts?’

  Huw thought for a moment. ‘She said she was busy this morning, but she would bring me some bread about noontide, and said I should not stray from here. She cannot be far away.’

  ‘You stay as she said, then, but if she is a little late do not fret. She may have to come to the castle to help us for a short time, but she will be back.’ He smiled at the boy, at which the dog growled more menacingly.

  The girl was found sat upon an upturned and damaged barrel to the rear of one of the brewers’ premises. She was wiping her eyes on her grubby, tattered skirts, and sported a split lip and reddened cheek. Catchpoll’s expression grew very hard. He was rarely perturbed by the failings of his fellow man, even when they resulted in murder, but he was revolted by the thought of what supposedly God-fearing and honest men assumed they could do to a slip of a girl.

  ‘So who did this?’

  She shrugged. ‘They don’t generally tell me their names, for they aren’t here for talking. It matters not, anyway. He paid, so we’ll eat when what you gave is gone.’ The voice was dulled, and matter-of-fact.

  ‘You’ll eat for the rest of the week if you can come and help the lord undersheriff at the castle. We’ve a man we want you to see. You can tell us if it is the man you saw before the house in Cokenstrete.’

  ‘And you’ll pay even if he is not?’ The girl sounded doubtful.

  ‘Yes. It is important we know if it is the right man. We are paying for the truth, not a particular answer.’

  ‘Will he see me? The man in Cokenstrete scared me.’

  ‘He need not see you, girl. Now, come along with me.’

  She followed, almost beside him but carefully not ‘with’ him, and was ignored by those against whom she brushed or passed; excepting one man who gave a small, tight smile and jingled coin in his scrip; and the priest of St Andrew’s, who emerged from a house and saw the retreating figure of Serjeant Catchpoll, and noted the girl. He stared for a moment, frowning, and then turned away, muttering about ‘daughters of Eve’ and the sinfulness of the young. Oblivious to the censure, the pair made their way along the main thoroughfare and shortly thereafter arrived at the castle gates, where the girl hesitated.

  ‘I’ve never been within,’ she said in a small voice.

  ‘I should hope not,’ replied Catchpoll, the voice of virtue, ‘but this is helping the law and a good thing.’

  She entered the gate as if the bailey were the haunt of monsters and ravening wolves, chewing nervously upon her damaged lip and with her eyes darting to left and right.

  Catchpoll led her to the door of one of the storerooms on the bailey’s perimeter, adjacent to the kitchens. He bade her wait just within, and with the door open enough for her to view the bailey. Then he sought out the undersheriff and had Walkelin fetch Serlo from the cells, while he and Bradecote returned to the storeroom. The girl was pale-faced, and her eyes watchful. Bradecote nodded his acknowledgement of her presence but let Catchpoll explain that all she had to do was say whether the bound man brought across the yard was the one she had seen on Cokenstrete.

  Serlo was reluctant to leave the perceived security of the cell, and Walkelin did nothing to disabuse him of the idea that something unpleasant awaited him. He was pushed, wrists bound, across the outer bailey, blinking in the daylight, and was only persuaded to move by Walkelin shoving him, none too gently, in the small of the back. He crossed the bailey to the guardhouse and disappeared within. Catchpoll’s eyes had not watched his progress, but had remained fixed on the girl’s face, seeking to read any sign of recognition that she might, in fear, attempt to conceal. He noted the flicker of her eyes, but when she turned to them there was no fear, merely contempt.

  ‘I know him alright. Tight-fisted and heavy-handed he is, but not, I swear before God, the man in Cokenstrete. If it had been him, I would have led you to him straight, for he is another of Master Mercet’s men. He’s but a nithing, not worth a second glance. He can’t even manage what he pays for, sometimes.’ She thought for a moment. ‘The man I saw was important, at least to himself, my lords. This man is no better than a whipped cur, who likes to think he is a man because he can attempt a man’s “pleasure” upon a girl, but the hooded man feared nobody. He walked as if he had a God-given right to go as he pleased, and yet he was no lord I’ve seen in Worcester these last months.’ She looked from Catchpoll to Bradecote and read the disappointment on their faces. ‘I tell you true, but it’s sorry I am if it is not the answer you wanted.’ Her voice was uncertain.

  ‘No. You did right by us and we’ll do right by you.’ Catchpoll looked meaningfully at Bradecote, and surreptitiously held up two fingers. Far better the largesse came from the wealthiest present. Bradecote raised an eyebrow by a fraction, but dug dutifully in his scrip and drew forth two silver pennies, which he handed to the girl. Her eyes widened in delight and she bobbed a curtsey to him, but looked to Catchpoll for dismissal.

  ‘You get back to your brother, and remember there’s more if you bring us news of the hooded man.’ Catchpoll nodded at her, and she disappeared with a mumbled promise to bring any in
formation she had gathered.

  ‘Any other monetary commitments you have in mind for me, Catchpoll?’

  The serjeant’s eyes narrowed. ‘My lord?’

  ‘Anyone else you’d have me pay to give you information?’

  ‘Ah, be fair, my lord. The information was for the both of us, and I am but a poor serjeant.’ He spread his hands placatingly, but the death’s head grin ruined the effect. ‘Besides, my lord, you saw her face. Two more silver pennies will keep her from such as the “friend” who gave her those marks, at least for a few more days.’

  ‘Only a few days, Catchpoll.’

  ‘In her world, that is as far as you look, my lord – to the next meal, or lack of it, to the next time she has to lift her skirts to earn coin for food.’ Catchpoll shrugged.

  Hugh Bradecote felt sullied, not by the girl’s having been at his side, but for being male. If he thought about the women who sold themselves at all, he thought vaguely of those who seemed to throw out their lures from choice. He disliked them. It was better than the truth: that there were young girls, and widows too, no doubt, who had nothing else to sell. They were condemned by ‘decent folk’ for whoring, more than the men who paid them, and it was wrong.

  Catchpoll watched Bradecote’s face. Some realities of life passed the high and mighty by, but the sheriff’s men saw all. The undersheriff would have to get used to the dirtier bits, physically and morally, because it came with the job, and the quicker the better.

  They crossed to the guardhouse, where Walkelin had Serlo concealed. Catchpoll was reluctant to end his enjoyment, and so stood stony-faced and arms folded, the picture of icy retribution.

  ‘You are sure of this, my lord?’ He addressed the undersheriff but kept his eyes on Serlo.

  ‘Yes. Best make an end to it straight away. He is of no further use to us.’ Bradecote’s voice had a callous chill to it. He could play this game as well as Catchpoll, and he was recalling what the girl said about him.