She listened, attentive and grave, and bowed her acceptance. Her voice, when she spoke, was at variance with her looks, for her speech was firm, low and measured.
‘I will convey your words to my lord.’ She then confirmed Bradecote’s suspicion. ‘There is no need to make a public pronouncement unless it should be known that scandal is being attached to him. I am sure the matter can be considered at an end.’
‘Thank you, my lady.’ Bradecote paused, and then the seed of an idea made him add, ‘Would you object to telling me how the fire started; some accident with cooking fires, perhaps, or a branch of candles?’
‘Oh no, my lord Bradecote. It was no accident. I do not know whether it makes it the worse for being intentional. Someone loosed flaming arrows into the roof thatch. Afterwards, one of the men found his bow and a quiver of arrows missing. The men-at-arms had been at the butts that very afternoon, while my lord had been hawking. It was not one of the men, for each could be vouched for by others, and there is no cause of discontent among them. My husband is a fair man.’
‘So was nobody found to have committed this deed?’
‘No. Suspicion did fall upon the monk who stopped to have his blisters attended to, but he was never found. He said he was from Winchcombe and on his way to Evesham, but no Brother Laurentius was known in Winchcombe. The lord Sheriff of Gloucester himself went to discover him.’
‘What manner of man was he? Did you see him yourself?’
Lady FitzGuimar glanced enquiringly at her father, puzzled. ‘My lord, how is this of importance? It was last year, and Dumbleton lies in another shire.’
The castellan shook his head.
‘Nevertheless, my lady, it might be relevant,’ Bradecote persisted. ‘Please, tell me all.’
She shrugged. ‘Well, the steward saw he had food and drink while my tirewoman dealt with his poor feet. She said the blisters were real enough, so how he could have walked fast enough to be beyond finding is a mystery. He was just a cowled Benedictine, not old. She never saw his face. Indeed her only description was of his feet; long, blistered and bony. I must say the connection was made only because he could not be accounted for. There was no cause for the man, and a man of God too, to commit such a crime. He was unknown to all within our walls.’
‘Thank you, my lady.’
‘Surely that is enough for you, Bradecote,’ announced the castellan, peevishly. ‘As my daughter says, the fire was not even in your jurisdiction. What interest it can be to you, when you have more than you can cope with dealing with fires here, I cannot imagine.’
‘No, I don’t suppose you can, my lord.’ Bradecote bowed to lady FitzGuimar, and turned to leave.
The castellan was not quite sure whether or not he had just been insulted, but on balance, thought that he had.
‘I will be sure to report this to the sheriff, and to my friend Guimar of Shapwyck also,’ he threw after Bradecote’s back, trying to get the last word, and was taken aback when the undersheriff spun round.
‘What?’ Bradecote almost bellowed at him.
‘Guimar of Shapwyck,’ reiterated the castellan more hesitantly. ‘He has the right, as Jocelyn’s brother and head of his house.’
Hugh Bradecote’s expression was grim, but there was excitement in his voice. ‘My lady, you may tell your lord that whoever caused his injuries and loss may yet come to justice, and in the shrievalty of Worcester.’
With which, and to the consternation of both father and daughter, Bradecote strode out.
Chapter Seventeen
Catchpoll was awaiting his dinner with no small degree of anticipation. The smell of the fish and the herb dumplings in the pottage made his mouth water, and, after a day that had, despite some entertainment, proved depressing, he was glad to empty his mind of all but thoughts of food for a while. The arrival of the undersheriff was therefore less than welcome. He invited him in reluctantly, but Bradecote’s desire to discuss his news prevented him noticing the forced hospitality.
‘Don’t you see, Catchpoll?’ asked Bradecote, as he drew to the close of the incident at Dumbleton. ‘The elusive “Brother Laurentius” could easily be our fire-setter. He was not seen bareheaded, and I’d vouch that in reality his head had never seen tonsure. This was a good disguise to get him into the manor. Who would not give ease and assistance to a holy brother? Those who went after him found no trace because they were looking for a Benedictine on foot, not a man on horseback, and a horse he surely had to aid his escape. He fits the description as tall and with long, bony feet, just as would fit our footprint in the alley.’
‘All very good, my lord, and I wouldn’t deny the likelihood of anything you’ve said thus far, but what does it add to our knowledge beyond the fact that our man has spread his net wider than expected.’
‘But listen further, Catchpoll. The man whose home he tried to burn down and whose family nearly burnt to death, is the brother of Guimar the Younger of Shapwyck, and where has that name turned up before?’
‘The lordling with an eye to Emma the silversmith’s widow! But we have discarded Drogo as a suspect after last night, and I can tell you his feet are wide and stubby. Aye, and smell to high heaven in the heat of his kitchen, not that it is a help.’
Bradecote shook his head. ‘No, that is not at issue. Drogo, besides being a man with smelly, stubby feet, would be noticed if he went absent for several days. Also if he had held a grudge against the man it would have been way back when the youth was smitten with the woman, not nigh on two decades later, when the man has manor and family. The point is that there is suddenly a link between the burning of a manor last autumn, the fire at the silversmith’s, and with Drogo, and this grudge or whatever it is, goes back a full score years. That would account for you not knowing of it.’
‘But you cannot bring in the fire at Simeon the Jew’s house, or Martin Woodman’s yard.’
‘I can fit in the latter, because the wood yard was merely the method of starting the fire. The target was Old Edgyth, the healing woman.’
‘Who treated Drogo’s wife and couldn’t save her?’ Catchpoll’s face contorted in thought, and Mistress Catchpoll took the opportunity to bob a curtsey and ask if the lord undersheriff would be staying to eat with them. Bradecote was suddenly aware of the delicious smell from the pot over the hearth, and his empty stomach, and assented willingly. The lady of the house set a bowl and spoon before him and began to ladle out her culinary delight.
Catchpoll was only dimly conscious of his meal being shared out with his superior. His brain was sorting information at speed, and extracting the most important facts.
‘We do not have a link with the Jew, but that does not mean there isn’t one somewhere. What we do have is an old, old cause for very current events. Our man has to be old enough to have been part of those events; who left and has at long last returned; a spurned rival for the lady’s affection, perhaps, who adored her from afar and blamed these people for her death. Drogo, according to gossip that lingers to this day, killed her because the child she carried was fathered by the young Jocelyn FitzGuimar, and Old Edgyth either tried to rid her of the child, or failed in her healing potions. It is an empty tale, but was juicy enough to linger in memories. Trouble is, Drogo has said that he did not think his wife would have known Reginald Ash, because he would have only been a journeyman then, and he could not be the jealous suitor because he didn’t set fire to his own property. Of course, much of the rumour need not have been true, just believed by our culprit.’
Mistress Catchpoll, having set a steaming bowl before her husband and brought bread to the table, sat down primly.
‘Seems to me, Catchpoll, as you needs speak to Aldith Merrow,’ she commented.
‘Who?’ Bradecote queried.
‘An old spider, my lord, who has, or rather had, for she is crabbed and aged now, the gossip of Worcester set out like threads of a web, and with her in the middle, awake to every tremor. She would indeed know every scandal that has raised its head
in Worcester these last thirty years, though her mind sometimes drifts nowadays.’ Catchpoll turned to his wife. ‘A fair idea, but you keep all of what you’ve heard this night within these walls, mark you.’
Mistress Catchpoll sniffed. ‘What do you take me for, husband?’
‘A woman like any other, who cannot bear the thought of not letting her friends know that she knows more than they do. But keep this very quiet, love, for lives do depend upon it.’ He turned back to Bradecote. ‘I’d best also find out the name of his wife’s first husband from Drogo as well. I’ll speak to him in the morning, since we can do nothing tonight.’
‘My lord,’ Mistress Catchpoll cast her spouse a swift glance before hesitantly offering Bradecote another thought, ‘could not the span of years be come about because the man went on crusade, or at least followed the soldiering trade. Some Worcester men go off and never return or come home so as you’d not know them.’ She turned back to Catchpoll. ‘You remember Edgar Oakes who went away for must be twenty year, and when he came back his father at first refused to believe it was him, having grieved for him dead all those years without word. He only proved himself by recounting tales of his childhood that none but he could have known.’
‘A good thought, wife, but don’t have too many more or the lord undersheriff will be drafting you as serjeant and I will be left to keep house.’
She giggled almost girlishly, and as she got up and gathered the empty bowls, Catchpoll tapped her playfully upon the rump. Bradecote, suddenly ill at ease with a domestic Catchpoll, made his excuses and retired, well fed and confident that at last they were not hunting shadows.
Walkelin lay in his bed, very awake. He tossed the clammy, damp cloth aside. His mother had pressed it to his brow, despite his protestations, complaining that he was in danger of succumbing to a fever of the brain, but he felt foolish, lying there in the dark like a sickly child. Tonight it did not worry him that sleep would not come, for he again let fantastic thoughts of stunning his superiors with his wily cunning, heroic bravery and clear-sighted intelligence, turn over and over in his head. His first effort had won approval, even if it had not proved ultimately successful, and his suggestions today had won praise. The future seemed full of promise and plaudits. One day he would be not just Walkelin, son of Hubert, but Serjeant FitzHubert, which sounded grand as a name, and be as respected, feared and, in certain quarters, loathed, as Serjeant Catchpoll.
The stable was not locked, merely latched, and slipping silently within was easy. There was the strong smell of sweet hay and warm horse, and the sound of contented and vacuous munching came from the stalls. A rat scuttled across the floor, making one of the horses stamp in irritation, but nothing else disturbed the preparations. It took a while to become accustomed to the intensity of the darkness, where the moon’s silvery beams did not penetrate, but it was merely the work of minutes to create a small bonfire of straw and kindling beneath the hayloft, and with every other flammable item laid close to hand. The hands that lit the fire did not tremble in the slightest, and the fire-raiser, smiling in contentment, let themself out and latched the door to conceal the mayhem that was beginning from such an innocent little flame worming its way between the kindling within, and spreading like a red contagion.
Hugh Bradecote was definitely sleeping better, and his dreams, while frequently convoluted, were not haunted by a white face and scarlet sheets. It must have been the middle of the night, for he was deep in slumber when his shoulder was shaken and an urgent voice called his name.
‘Not again, please,’ prayed Bradecote out loud, as he surfaced to full consciousness, but his prayer was not answered. As he pulled on his boots, the undersheriff wondered what fresh incendiary disaster awaited him. The servant who had woken him could give neither direction nor detail, excepting that one of the watch had raced back to the castle with the cry of ‘Fire’ upon his lips. Bradecote went to where the man waited, and set off, leaving instructions for Serjeant Catchpoll to be similarly disturbed. He would be damned if he should spend yet another wakeful night and yet have Catchpoll snore through it in peace.
The wooden stable building burnt easily and swiftly, and had caught well and truly before neighbouring townsfolk turned out to prevent its spread, or, in the case of the very old and very young, to be excited by the spectacle.
It was Huw’s coughing more than the agitation of the horses that woke his sister, and when she opened her eyes she was confused by the thick darkness. As she took a yawning breath, thinking she had been dreaming, the smoke reached her, and she sprang to full wakefulness. Her first thoughts were panic-ridden and jumbled. She sat up, pushing her brother, nestled against her, from her body, and choked. She crawled towards the ladder of the hayloft to look down, but never reached the edge, for the heat, and sound of crackling burning, told her that any escape by their normal route would be impossible. She tried to think, though the thought that hammered in her brain was that they were trapped. It was fast becoming difficult to breathe, and she shook her brother’s shoulder, calling his name. He woke befuddled, rubbing his eyes and grumbling, and she had to shove him to move him towards the front wall of the building, where small gaps between the wooden planks gave access to snatches of clearer air. She heard the sound of a horse lashing out at the panel of a stall in its panic, of people shouting outside, of splintering wood as men hacked through the wooden planks to reach the tethered beasts, but doubted any would guess their presence, or would hear them if they managed to call out.
‘Stay by the cracks, Huw, and keep your face to them for air. I will be back soon.’
She took a deep breath and crawled back along the eave edge of the loft, praying that her memory did not deceive her, and giving silent thanks when her hand touched the tine of a pitchfork. Dragging it back, at what seemed a snail’s pace, she began to prise and kick at the planking. She knew her strength would not last, but she prayed fervently to heaven that it would be enough. In answer, the first plank splintered, and she used the pitchfork to try and lever another to make a hole large enough to lean out and attract attention.
It was a woman’s scream that alerted the firefighters to the presence of the child. All attention had been on the seat of the fire behind the main doors, and attempting to save the horses. A couple had been rescued by men taking axes and breaking in the side of the building where the stalls were located, but the others had been too panic-stricken to control, and the whinnying had now become laced with the ghastly sound of equine screams. The woman’s scream, at a different pitch, and accompanied by a pointing, waving arm, drew eyes to the left, where Huw’s tousled head had been thrust through the hole by his sister, and he called out piteously in a choking treble.
Catchpoll and Bradecote were only just upon the scene, and Catchpoll’s heart missed a beat. Of course, this was where the children holed up at night. He surged forward, calling for a ladder, but was beaten to it by a tall figure that showed itself as Father Boniface. Grim-faced and muttering Latin in a monotone, the priest tucked the hem of his habit into his rope girdle, baring the hairy legs and knobbly, pale knees that Catchpoll had seen in Corviserstrete, along with an axe thrust into his hand by a helpful bystander, and began his ascent of the rickety ladder. All eyes followed him, even as men threw water on the blaze, and shouts of encouragement from the crowd added to the noise.
At the top of the ladder Father Boniface steadied himself, and leant back to get a good forceful blow at the planking. Huw shut his eyes as the axe bit close and splinters scratched at his face. The priest was not a bulky man but showed strength in his arm, and after a couple of minutes dropped the axe, with a shouted warning to the men holding the foot of the ladder, and reached forward to haul the boy by the shoulders through the enlarged hole.
A ragged cheer went up, and people clapped. Catchpoll took the child from Father Boniface’s arms as he reached the ground, coughing and with sweat dripping from his tonsure, but the serjeant’s face was taut, not congratulatory.
; ‘What of the girl?’
‘What girl?’ the priest replied.
The flames had risen to the loft edge by now and the heat seared the throat and was uncomfortable to skin. The relief at seeing her brother disappear through the enlarged opening drained the girl of much of her remaining strength. She had fulfilled the task her mother had set upon her, and taken care of Huw. She was breathless in the smoke, and part of her wanted nothing more than to take the easy way, give in and let the grey swirls take her, but the flames were reaching out to her also, with hot claws, and she did not wish to perish by fire. The horses’ screams sounded to her like the damned in hell and she did not want hell. It was barely a couple of feet to crawl forward to the hole, but it seemed to take her an eternity. She was praying, not for salvation in this life, for she was resigning herself to its end, but that God would forgive the sins of the flesh she had been forced to commit to keep her sibling from starvation. Holy Mary would intercede for her, since it had been for a child. She repeated the line in her head as even whispering it made her choke the more. ‘Sancta Maria, Mater Dei, ora pro nobis peccatoribus, nunc et in hora mortis nostrae.’
As she reached the opening, the light diminished. Someone was there for her. ‘… nunc et in hora mortis nostrae.’ Now and in the hour of our death. Perhaps this might yet not be that hour. She held out her hands to the figure who darkened the opening, and looked up into the face of her rescuer in the firelight. She saw the reflection of the fire tinting the censorious eyes in the grim face.
There was a crash as the floor gave way behind her.
‘Oh no, Holy Mary, please no …’ The cry of horror was cut short by the scream, echoed by that of women in the crowd below, and the priest leant back as a tongue of yellow flame licked forth from the embrasure.
Ordeal by Fire Page 18
