Ordeal by Fire

by Sarah Hawkswood

  He descended the ladder swiftly, helping hands steadying him as he reached the bottom. His brows were singed, but also clearly furrowed. He looked straight into Catchpoll’s eyes, his own as hard as granite.

  ‘It is the will of God, Serjeant.’ The voice was emotionless.

  Catchpoll had no words with which to respond.

  Other hands clapped the priest upon the shoulder, praising his efforts. ‘You tried your best, Father, and it was a brave deed … At least the boy was saved … There was nothing else could be done …’

  Catchpoll turned to look at the child, hunched, and with sacking draped round his thin shoulders. His eyes were wide, like a mouse in the gaze of a snake, but there was comprehension as well as horror.

  ‘Catchpoll.’ Bradecote repeated his name before he responded.

  ‘My lord?’

  ‘I asked what should be done with the boy.’

  ‘I’ll take him home with me for tonight. We can think of something later. Do you need me here still? If not, I’ll get him away from all this.’ Catchpoll jerked his head at the red and yellow inferno that had been the stables.

  Bradecote nodded his agreement, and turned to direct the preservation of nearby buildings, as Catchpoll lifted his small burden and walked away into the dark, the crowd parting silently to let him through.

  Walkelin reported before his time to the castle, so keen was he to get to work. The night had brought not counsel, but a plan, one which would use the newly gained advice of Serjeant Catchpoll to good effect, and have his superiors marvelling at his ‘serjeanting’ skill. Not finding Serjeant Catchpoll or the undersheriff yet about, he left a message with one of his fellow men-at-arms to let them know what he was up to, and to come along to Edgar Brewer’s as soon as they could. He had been expecting to have to share his glory, if not find much of it purloined by seniority; but he now judged that their absence should give him enough time to have reached the climax of his efforts and prevent the more senior and experienced sheriff’s men stealing all his thunder. He left whistling and in confident expectation, but also in blissful ignorance of the dramatic and tragic turn of events that had occurred during the night.

  Chapter Eighteen

  Catchpoll did not sleep late, but before meeting the undersheriff, he went, heavy-hearted and grim, to speak with Drogo, whom he found more cheerful than before, having had good news from old Brother Hubert about the condition of Nesta Bakere. He was surprised by Catchpoll’s query, but supplied the name Catchpoll sought without hesitation.

  Hugh Bradecote did not feel like breaking his fast, though his throat, still lined with the bitterness of smoke, would welcome cool liquid. He was sick at the thought of another life wasted, and in such a horrific manner. The girl’s cry and scream had haunted his disturbed slumber and at that moment he doubted whether he would be able to bring the fire-setter to trial for the simple reason that he thought he might kill the man himself. He told himself that the taking of a life was the same crime, no matter the age or gender, whether the willingly sinful Maud Brewer or the unwillingly sinful … he did not even know her name, poor girl, and yet it did matter. It touched him emotionally. Catchpoll, he decided, would condemn such feelings and be impervious. In this instance he was wrong.

  The sight of the castellan, sat at the high table and tearing bread with evident pleasure, gave him further reason to go without breaking his fast this particular morning. He would have no patience with the man’s wittering, this day of all days.

  The meeting of undersheriff and serjeant was taciturn, being merely the exchange of a nod and a grunt. They walked in silence and by some unspoken mutual consent to the guardhouse at the gate, where they ascended to the battlements, and there leant with Worcester spread before them.

  ‘How’s the boy?’

  ‘In body, fair enough. He coughs a bit, but then that’s all he does; no words; no movement. He’s in shock, but how long it will last, heaven alone knows.’

  ‘And for the future?’

  ‘We’ll keep him until this is all concluded, and be sure we end this soon now, my lord, but thereafter I wouldn’t like to say. Neither the wife or me really want a child of that age about the place. Went through all of that in our time and are past the age for it. I wondered if the cathedral priory might take him, even without a gift, out of charity.’

  ‘Father Boniface might put in a good word.’ Bradecote did not sound as if he thought it likely.

  ‘I doubt a good word is ever forthcoming from him,’ Catchpoll snorted. ‘You can’t say he’s without guts, but there’s not a jot of humanity in the man. He’s some hollowed-out religious stick. There was no sign of horror last night, no compassion, no regret, just “Deus vult”.’

  There was an unnatural silence as both men realised what had just been said, and made connections.

  Bradecote shook his head, disbelieving. ‘No, we must be wrong to think it. He’s a man of God, however unfeeling. If we follow this through we’ll see it cannot work. For a start, he is probably younger than I am, so he could not have been in love with Emma. Jesu, he would only have been a—’

  ‘Child, my lord?’ Catchpoll grimaced. ‘We considered a man, true enough, but not a loving son. Think of it. He’s seven or eight, much the age of young Huw. His father dies in shaming circumstances and his loving and adored mother sends him to the Benedictines to keep him from that shame. So he grows and is devout, remembering his mother almost as the Lady Mary, and chooses the ministry of the priesthood over the cloister. Then chance sends him back here, where the vague memories are rekindled and idle gossip burns his ears, and he becomes her avenging angel. It fits, right down to the holy oil.’

  ‘And he gave us Serlo, so now we know that it was not he who stole the oil, who else is there who could have done it? Nobody, because the priest himself used it. Of course. And the fires take their course as God’s judgement like you said.’ The undersheriff paused. ‘Tell me there’s a flaw to this, Catchpoll,’ groaned Bradecote. ‘Mea culpa, what else have I missed?’

  ‘Mea culpa,’ echoed Catchpoll, growing pale. ‘That’s what he was muttering last night when he went up the ladder for the boy. I was so taken with someone rescuing the lad I took no heed, but if the fire were the priest’s fault, and he had no knowledge of the boy’s presence …’ Serjeant Catchpoll closed his eyes and fell silent for some moments. When he spoke again his voice was very quiet.

  ‘The girl. She must have recognised his face at the very last minute. Remember what she cried, “Oh no, Holy Mary, no,” except the last word was cut short. It was not “no” at all but “not”; it would have been, “Holy Mary, not you.” Think about what happened exactly, my lord. When the crash came, did the priest reach out to try and grab that poor girl’s arms?’

  Bradecote tried to cast his mind back. ‘I was not best placed to see, but no, I think not.’

  ‘But the normal reaction would have been to lunge forward in an effort to grab her. He made none, I’ll swear, and when he came down he was so cold and calm it was unnatural. “God’s will” he said it was.’ Catchpoll ground his teeth. ‘I’ll give him “God’s will”. I care not for your commands about how I gets a confession on this one, I am going to make that bastard long for the rope before I finish with him. To let her die …’

  Bradecote understood Catchpoll’s anger but was striving to stay calm and analytical. ‘But wait a moment. How would Boniface know of what happened once he went to the monks? He might remember the names of who ruined his father but … This fits and yet does not. Could we be making it fit as we tried to make Mercet’s plot against Simeon the Jew fit? Simeon.’ Bradecote repeated the name, and groaned. ‘Catchpoll, he might have given us the key long ago if we had but known it. He said he once lent money to a “godly woman” whose husband had killed himself when brought to ruin by some scheme. The woman had shown kindness to Simeon’s wife and he charged her no interest. She used it to send her son to the brothers in a religious house. He made a joke about a Jew
funding a Benedictine. He said the woman paid it all back, despite having only a menial job, and then she married and he knew no more of her. There’s our connection with Simeon. No doubt Boniface found out about the loan and assumed the obvious. She may even have taken him with her to see him. He saw his mother as a serving maid to pay off the interest, and taking the work in the castle, where she met Drogo and Jocelyn of Shapwyck, to do so. Now, how could he have heard of Shapwyck?’

  ‘Gossip dies a slow death, my lord. Agnes Whitwood told that very tale to my wife, and I doubt not it is a favoured one.’ He closed his eyes as if in pain, and groaned, ‘and she prays at St Andrew’s.’

  ‘And since the priest wanders at night to “think”, he might have seen Drogo at the Widow Bakere’s? Everyone who has a connection with his mother has to pay the penalty, because it was their fault she came to a sad end.’

  ‘We haven’t found the link to Mercet or the silversmith, but Mercet might be a false trail. It could be that the priest knew of the girl’s hideaway and wanted to be rid of her. He need not have known of the brother, and would have striven to save him.’

  Bradecote ran a hand through his hair, trying to ensure all avenues were covered. ‘There can be no doubt when we do this and bring him in, Catchpoll. Think of the reaction of the Church if we are wrong.’

  ‘But think of what further damage he could do if there are others he blames that we know nothing about.’

  Bradecote crossed himself devoutly. ‘Holy saints preserve us from that.’ He drew a deep breath, having reached a decision. ‘Right then. You go swiftly to the “spider” woman, the aged Aldith Merrow, and check what you can of the old tale. I will go to the priory and see Father Prior. Meet me at the remains of Mercet’s stable as soon as you can. First one there can ferret around, not that we need to know much. The girl’s body was removed, I know, but afterwards?’

  ‘I spoke to Father Anselm of All Saints. He offered to hold the body and have it buried in the churchyard there. Many of his parish are too poor for fancy funerals and he is a good man. Why do you go to Father Prior though, my lord?’

  ‘Churchmen know about who is where, especially if they have the say in who is sent to a particular parish, and we need to find out about Father Boniface. Between us I think we should be able to draw enough together to bring in the priest of St Andrew’s. We can always send Walkelin to keep watch on him.’

  ‘Walkelin … now, I’ve not seen him today, which is peculiar. He didn’t look like he was sickening last evening. I wonder where he’s got to?’

  The man-at-arms to whom Walkelin had spoken had been sent to the smithy with a horse that needed shoeing, and so Catchpoll did not see him. Walkelin’s whereabouts remained unknown, and brought down curses upon his absent flame-haired head.

  The young man himself, in blissful ignorance of being in bad odour with Serjeant Catchpoll, had arrived at Edgar Brewer’s, and then been struck by a problem that he had not foreseen. Having previously broken bread with the brewer’s workers, he had no desire to be recognised as the nosey toy seller. He pondered his problem, and as he did so it was solved by the same two men emerging from the rear of the brewhouse rolling barrels, which they loaded onto a cart pulled by a morose and underfed horse. They led it away at its own pace, which was funereal. Here was his opportunity. He approached the front door, wiped his damp palms down the front of his cotte, cleared his throat, and knocked.

  Widow Fowler opened the door by no more than a crack, and peered at the young stranger.

  ‘Yes?’

  Father Prior was not a man who rushed things. He greeted the undersheriff with calm courtesy, which in normal circumstances Bradecote would have appreciated, but today he had little time for offers of refreshment and animadversions on the effect of the recent weather upon the apple crop in the priory orchards. He needed to cut the pleasantries short without seeming churlish, and if the prior thought his smile more of a fixed manic grin and his responses overbrief, he gave no outward sign. At long last the sheriff’s officer was able to pose his important questions.

  ‘Father, I have need of information that I think only you, in Worcester, can provide. Lives may depend upon a swift resolution.’

  ‘This certainly sounds very serious, my lord. Tell me how I may assist you.’

  ‘I need to know as much as possible about Father Boniface and St Andrew’s.’

  ‘Ah. You know it is strange how becoming a priest, rather than a monk, affects some men. We had no cause to think … And if he is rather “rigorous” … After the death of Father Ambrose last year – and he was a fine man, very much loved and respected by his flock – we sent the parish this new, young priest. I believe he is most devout and a strict shepherd, although from report his manner is a little too … er, forbidding. The enthusiasm of the young, no doubt. I am sure he will mellow.’

  ‘So he is of this house? Tell me about him, since he entered the priory.’

  ‘I … he came to us as an oblate. In his case … It was many years past, and … there was some great need in the family. I did not deal with novices much. I was the sacrist before I was elected prior, and in those days not even an obedientary. He was a Worcester boy, though our brothers come from all over the shire and beyond. It is one of the reasons he was given St Andrew’s. A young man desirous of bringing God’s word to his own people, you know.’

  ‘One other question, Father. Do priests use their own names?’

  ‘I’m sorry?’

  ‘When men take the cowl do they keep their baptismal names?’

  ‘Sometimes, but others choose to take a new name to signify their new life, or are given them if they are oblates. Not that committing boys to the conventual life is encouraged now. It is better if they come when they are of an age to decide for themselves. God must call you to the cowl; you must not be forced into it.’

  ‘Thank you. Father, you may hear distressing news about the incumbent of St Andrew’s, but be assured we would not act if we were not sure.’

  ‘That sounds very official, and unpleasant.’

  ‘I am sorry, Father Prior, but it is. Very.’ He rose, made a polite obeisance, and left.

  Aldith Merrow had lived in Worcester all her long life, which numbered over three score years and ten, and she now lived with her son and his wife, with whom she maintained a state of verbal war. For the better part of five decades she had been the repository of Worcester gossip, trading her knowledge for further snippets, which she filed in her memory as either wild talk, truth wrapped in tales, or simply weapons, barbs to be cast at those she disliked. These days her only barbs were for her daughter-in-law, and her memory, while vivid for the distant past, could not tell you what she ate for yesterday’s dinner, other than she must have disliked it because ‘the idle good-for-nothing’ had cooked it. She greeted the announcement that the sheriff’s serjeant wanted words with her with a grunt, and a grumbling complaint about letting the aged sit quiet, but she was secretly delighted, and responded to his enquiry about the silversmith who had killed himself nigh on a quarter century past, and whose widow had gone to work at the castle.

  ‘Remember? Of course I remember. That was the talk of Worcester for half a summer.’ The old woman grinned toothlessly at Catchpoll, and her watery eyes sparkled at the memory. ‘Such a tale, it was. Waltheof was a fool, of course, but that was not gossip, just good plain fact. He was a good craftsman with his hands, it must be said, and you’ll see his work proudly shown by those who own it, but in all else a fool. William Long and his cousin, “young” Mercet as he was then, embroiled him in some foolish scheme that left Waltheof with all the risk and them with any chance of profit. So naturally, when it went wrong it was Waltheof who was ruined, and the other silversmiths, thinking of the probity of their craft, would not help him. Long managed to come clean from it somehow, and Mercet cared as little then as he does now what folk think of him. In fact he was probably quite pleased.’ The old woman then described Robert Mercet in pithy and unsavoury
terms that matched Catchpoll’s own views, though he was vaguely shocked at hearing them on the lips of a frail-looking dame of advanced years. ‘Waltheof could not face either the shame or telling his wife, and took the coward’s way. The poor widow, and the boy, were left with nothing but debt, which took both business and home. Emma was a good, kind soul, far too good for the likes of Waltheof, and sent the lad to the monks. It was a sensible decision, giving the boy a secure future, for the scandal would have tainted his life outside the cloister. Boys are not known for their kindness, and rubbing in the fact that his father was not even entitled to holy ground to rot in would have been a cruel thing for a child his age. I never heard how she found the wherewithal to find the gift for his admission, so it must have been a very tight secret, but sending him from her forever, well, it broke her heart for sure. And then she took work in the castle, where she turned heads of course. A pretty woman, Waltheof’s widow; pretty and pious. She married the undercook, though she could have had a lord for the snapping of her fingers, and was dead within the year, and the babe she carried with her.’ The old woman shook her head. ‘Deserved better, she did. God have mercy on her.’

  ‘You say nothing of who fathered the child she carried.’ Catchpoll was probing.

  ‘I credited you with more sense, Serjeant.’ The old woman shook her head in disappointment. ‘Tongues wag, but most of it is sheer foolery, and you must know Drogo the Cook better than most. No, Drogo would not have doted on a woman he was not sure of, and she was honest as the June day is long. It made for a spicy tale, and the empty heads took it as a babe takes milk at the pap, but pah! I was never such a one, Serjeant Catchpoll. I knows folk and I listens, but I have the sense to sort truth from fable.’ The rheumy eyes challenged him.