Ordeal by Fire

by Sarah Hawkswood

  ‘Shut up!’ Edgar Brewer spat, and though he might have been addressing Walkelin, it was clear the injunction was aimed at the widow, whose breathing was quickened and whose face blended panic and fury. The brewer, without turning his head, yelled for his workmen in the brewhouse.

  Young Walkelin was now hoping that his superiors were about to make a timely appearance. He was a handy sort of chap in a fight, but numbers were likely to be against him. Edgar Brewer’s shout for aid was answered, but not as he expected. Cries of alarm carried into the dwelling. Walkelin gave silent thanks. Serjeant Catchpoll had obviously decided it was easier to approach via the brewhouse, and judging by the noise, he had brought reinforcements in case of need. Brewer half turned, unwilling to leave Walkelin in his chamber, but worried by the cries.

  ‘Sweet Jesu,’ he exclaimed, seeing the smoke billowing forth from the brewhouse, and ran towards his burning workplace.

  Father Boniface had no need of concealment or guile. This was the culmination of his mission from God. Apprehension mattered not, for he was an instrument of the Almighty, and would be saved by divine intervention. The upended handcart he had appropriated from outside the stable a few doors away was just the vehicle he needed, and providence had supplied him with all he required for a fire. Next to the stable was the shop of a coracle maker. The man himself had disappeared within on some task, but withies and a pot of hot pitch remained by the coracle under construction. With a few armfuls of straw, set alight with flint and steel, and a bundle of withies splashed with pitch, a fire was started in seconds. He had but to open the rear door of the brewhouse, whence Walkelin had so recently seen the barrels rolled out, and half the job was done. Any attempt to thrust the burning cart back out was prevented by the simple act of jamming the latch with a stout stick. Even if they broke out, the fire would have taken good hold and drawn anyone from the front lodging. The priest nipped back to the front door of the premises, the part empty pot of pitch half concealed by his habit, waited for a minute after hearing the commotion from the rear, and opened the door in the misplaced confidence that it would be empty within. He drew up short at the sight of Widow Fowler, arms upraised and in the process of lobbing the cook-pot at Walkelin, who was caught in the act of ducking, The cook-pot clattered into the corner. Both looked at him in consternation, Walkelin because he had expected the undersheriff, and Widow Fowler because she had expected nobody at all. Walkelin was confused. The woman had been throwing household utensils at him from the moment Edgar Brewer ran out to his brewhouse. Several items had narrowly missed the man-at-arms’ head, and he was unsure how best to respond. Fighting women did not come easily to a young man for whom the opposite sex were either inexplicable but fascinating, or mothers whom it was unwise as well as disrespectful to disobey. And now, in place of the undersheriff, here was the hangdog-faced priest of St Andrew’s.

  For her part, Widow Fowler, bosom heaving with exertion and anger, bobbed a curtsey while reaching towards the poker.

  The trio stared at each other in silence for several moments before Father Boniface recovered himself enough to speak.

  ‘I am sorry, but I was passing, and I saw … I mean … Mistress, there is smoke and flame coming from your brewhouse. I thought I should alert you.’ He sounded every inch the perplexed cleric, surprised by the altercation going on in the chamber.

  ‘Thank you, Father.’ The woman saw her chance, abandoned thoughts of the poker and made to exit, thinking Walkelin would not hamper her in the presence of the priest, but he blocked the doorway.

  ‘No, you don’t. I am taking you before the undersheriff for murder.’

  He was dimly aware that both the people looking at him flinched, but he put the priest’s reaction down to shocked horror.

  ‘Fool,’ spat the widow, coming at him with clenched fists and flailing at his head and chest. ‘I never killed her, before God I swear it. She was already dead and cold when I—’ She caught herself on a gasp and clamped her mouth shut.

  ‘When you pushed the body down the stairs and dropped the washing after it.’ Walkelin finished the sentence for her. He did not pose it as a question but rather as a statement of known fact, and grabbed her wrists. He noted the spasm of fear that crossed the woman’s features, and did not see the look upon the face of the priest, who muttered something under his breath that Walkelin assumed to be indicative of moral condemnation.

  In reality, Father Boniface was overwhelmed by the knowledge that this final task laid upon him encompassed the punishment of another mortal sin. A glow of righteousness as fierce as any flame surged through him. He threw the pitch pot against the door, where it smashed, and pointed an accusing finger.

  ‘Jezebel!’ He flung the insult at Widow Fowler, who turned her head in surprise at his vehemence.

  Walkelin too was taken aback. The priest seemed possessed. His eyes flashed, and his arms flailed wildly. Then Walkelin noticed the pitch dripping down the door and the flint and steel in the priest’s hands. Father Boniface shouted at them.

  ‘“Mihi vindicta: ego retribuam, dicit Dominus.” And I am the instrument of that vengeance; God’s own instrument. You cannot harm me.’

  Walkelin was a good lad who had always paid attention in church, and he knew the text. Just the sort that a priest like Boniface would use, he thought bitterly, letting go of one of the widow’s wrists and drawing his sword. He edged towards the priest.

  ‘Wrong, Father. Vengeance is God’s alone. Now you just come away from the door and put out the flame.’ His calm voice belied the confusion in his brain.

  Seizing her chance, Widow Fowler pulled herself from Walkelin’s grasp upon her wrist and lunged for the rear doorway, only to find that the now thick and billowing smoke in the small yard threw her back, choking her. Walkelin, dealing with problems on two fronts, took his eye from the priest for a moment as the woman escaped him. It was all the time that Father Boniface needed. The scrape of flint and steel was followed by his cry of triumph as the flame took to the tarred door. Then the cry became a scream as his habit, which itself had been smeared with the contents of the pitch pot, caught alight.

  Walkelin was fighting his own rising panic. The rear exit was not viable, the front door was burning and in front of it the priest was twirling around, arms waving like a swan trying to get airborne, trying to put out the flames engulfing his person and achieving the opposite effect. The screaming was an unnatural pitch and core-chilling. Widow Fowler was choking and appeared almost unhinged by fear, flinging herself on the floor. Walkelin, coughing, and with his eyes watering, made a snap decision, and ran at the priest, dragging him down onto the floor and trying to roll him in the rushes, but some of those too were now smouldering, and all that diminished was the screaming.

  The smoke was thickening, catching in Walkelin’s throat and eyes. His chest felt constricted. He realised he had but one chance remaining. Abandoning the priest, he lifted the now inanimate woman in his arms, and made his move.

  Chapter Twenty

  Hugh Bradecote, Serjeant Catchpoll, and their clattering entourage arrived at Edgar Brewer’s already aware of a fire from the smoke rising into the pale blue of the September sky. Neighbours were in the process of forming parties to fight the flames, which came from both brewhouse and domicile. Men with axes were hacking at the brewhouse door to aid the men who were shouting and coughing within, and fearing to be burnt to death, or asphyxiate in the smoke-filled yard, which was little more than a few yards between the two.

  Bradecote dismounted before his horse had even been pulled up, and thrust the reins into the hand of an old man too frail to be of use in fighting the flames.

  ‘Is there anyone within the house?’ he yelled, as he ran towards the sound of the trapped men in the brewhouse.

  Before any answer was returned, the shutters of the lower chamber of the house burst open, and Walkelin, with an inanimate Widow Fowler in his arms, half rolled and half threw himself out into the street, coughing and retching. />
  Bradecote turned back, and Catchpoll ran forward and relieved the gasping Walkelin of his load, whom he dumped unceremoniously in the street, then thumped the spluttering ‘serjeant’s apprentice’ hard upon the back. After which he cuffed him smartly round the ear. Bradecote returned his attention to the rescue.

  ‘Ow, what’s that for, Serjeant?’ Walkelin complained.

  ‘Breaking rule number two.’

  ‘Which is?’ queried Walkelin, eyes streaming. He rubbed his ear and grimaced.

  ‘Disappearing without me knowing what you’re up to. Telling someone to let me know, if they happen to bump into me, isn’t good enough. You were a fair way to getting yourself killed in there, and while it’d be no more than a halfwit deserved, I picked you out and don’t like to be shown up foolish, which I would if you ended up a corpse on your first task.’ Catchpoll sounded as if he was only concerned that his reputation might be dented by Walkelin’s demise.

  ‘Sorry, Serjeant. And the first rule?’

  ‘Never do anything to upset Serjeant Catchpoll. In fact, since that covers number two, just remember that at all times and you might just stay alive.’

  ‘Right, Serjeant.’

  ‘And did you get a confession from the sack of bones you’ve just carted out?’ Catchpoll jerked a thumb at the inanimate form of Widow Fowler, around whom several women were fussing, attempting to bring her round from her swoon.

  ‘Sort of. She certainly made it clear that Maud Brewer was very dead before she arrived on the scene, and since she is meant to have discovered the body just after the sound of the fall, well, the fall must have been of a corpse. This clearly shows—’

  ‘That she died in her upper chamber, and that her husband has no proof he was not there. Who else could have been up there and not caused her to scream?’ The serjeant mumbled the last part almost to himself.

  ‘Well, judging by what has been said, it could have been half of the men in Worcester.’

  Catchpoll shook his head. ‘No, that doesn’t work. Firstly, the husband would not have dismissed the thump of the fall. He would have gone to investigate, not made an excuse. Also, from years of dealing with this sort of thing, she wouldn’t have entertained other men in the marital bed when the husband was close by and liable to discover her.’

  ‘So we have him.’

  ‘Aye, and the widow too, since she clearly would not have pushed Maud’s body down the stair if she had found it unexpectedly. She would have screamed, a proper scream, not a pretence. You made a good taking, Walkelin, but you put success before safety. Don’t be a fool again.’ Catchpoll turned to send a man-at-arms to keep a hand on Edgar Brewer, who had emerged, singed and breathless, with his workers from the brewhouse, but Bradecote was before him.

  Walkelin was vaguely pleased, but as commendation went it seemed muted. He was also confused. The smoke, he thought dimly, must have got to his brain. He felt suddenly very tired and sank down on to his haunches.

  ‘Where is Father Boniface?’ The undersheriff, now that the emergency was over, feared the priest had escaped once again, and there was urgency in his voice.

  Walkelin shook his head, and immediately regretted doing so as his senses swam. ‘He’s still within. He’ll be dead, was flaming when I grabbed … I had no choice. Sorry, my lord.’ He looked to Catchpoll. ‘I don’t understand. What was he doing?’ He rubbed his brow.

  ‘Setting fire to the place, you mean?’ Bradecote looked down at his man. ‘Well, that might be because he did that a lot. Walkelin, the priest of St Andrew’s was our fire-raiser. I’ll explain why later. Let’s get you and the surviving culprits back to the castle.’ He turned to address another man-at-arms. ‘If you find the priest’s corpse, get something to cover it, fast, in case it is recognisable as a cleric. Much as I would like to crow our success from the rooftops, the Church will find this embarrassing, and an embarrassed Church is a “complaining to the sheriff” Church.’

  Catchpoll smiled. ‘He’s beginning to sound like me,’ he murmured, half to himself.

  ‘I don’t like it, Catchpoll. It’s unnatural the way he sits there like some drooping gargoyle off the cathedral roof, with never a word, nor a sign he hears what I say, though it’s simple and his mother tongue. You’d think I was talking Foreign.’ Mistress Catchpoll was watching the boy, Huw, who sat in a corner. ‘He’s like some sick animal, waiting for the end. It’s unnerving me, good and proper. How long is he going to be with us?’

  ‘Mother tongue,’ repeated Catchpoll slowly, ignoring the last part of his wife’s complaint. ‘Of course. You know, I might have the answer to that. I’m off back to see Brother Hubert and find out how Widow Bakere goes on.’

  ‘But, Catchpoll …’ Mistress Catchpoll found herself addressing the open doorway and shook her head as she shook out her broom.

  Brother Hubert again reported improvement in the widow’s condition. ‘But it is important for her to want to recover, really want to. The spirit can be worse wounded even than the body, and if the spirit fails …’ He shook his head, but then brightened. ‘The cook visited her for the first time this morning, and he was, I will say this for him, both soft of word and kind in manner, though she wept after his departure.’

  ‘Could she be moved yet, Brother?’

  The monk considered the matter gravely. ‘It is not what I would recommend, though I know the girl whose bed this is would be glad to have it back.’

  ‘What if I could give you a good reason? Listen.’ Catchpoll expounded his idea, and the old Infirmarer, after a few moments, nodded and smiled.

  Having returned home and cast his house in uproar by announcing that Widow Bakere would be arriving in a litter within the hour, Catchpoll escaped his wife’s voluble condemnation by disappearing to find Drogo.

  ‘I’ve arranged for your Nesta to be taken back to my home this morning.’

  ‘She’s not fit, surely?’ Drogo looked concerned.

  ‘Perhaps not, but I have my reasons, and I’m hoping you’ll not be put out by them.’ He sat down and set about putting Drogo in the picture. It had occurred to Catchpoll, only on the way to visit him, that the plan might not be entirely to Drogo’s taste, but he took it very well, and a little later was seen limping beside the litter when the small entourage arrived outside Catchpoll’s cottage.

  Mistress Catchpoll made a show of hospitable welcome, though she cast her spouse a look that spoke volumes. He merely smiled back at her. The invalid was set down tenderly and lifted, not without tears and groans, into a cot borrowed from the cooper’s next door. Revived by a drop of Mistress Catchpoll’s fermented elderberry, which only appeared on special occasions, she began to look less pinched and faint. All the while, Huw the orphan sat curled in a corner, his hands clasped round his knees and his face a blank mask. Catchpoll drew up a stool and spoke very softly to Nesta Bakere.

  ‘I know you must be thinking of your hurts and losses now, but we need your help. The lad in the corner, well he’s the victim of the fire-setter too, and though he looks unhurt, he suffers mortal bad. His parents died some while back, and there was just his sister to care for him, and her not of an age to take the task. They were reduced to sleeping in a stable, and that was burnt to the ground. The girl did her best, and Huw here was saved, but she was lost to the fire. He has said nothing since, nor shown sign of interest in the world. We haven’t even discovered the sister’s name, and we need to get what there is of her buried decent.’

  Nesta Bakere did not turn her head, but swivelled her eyes in the boy’s direction.

  ‘How can I help?’ she queried, faintly.

  Catchpoll smiled slightly; it was just a quivering of lip and extension of the line of his mouth. ‘His mother was Welsh, and I thought if you spoke to him, in the language his mother used, then he might respond.’

  The injured woman’s eyes filled with sudden tears. ‘There’s tragic. Poor little soul.’ She grasped Drogo’s hand with her sound one, and he patted it consoling.


  ‘Huw bach, dere eistedd gyda fi,’ she called gently, patting the stool vacated hastily by Drogo.

  The little boy looked up, his face still impassive, but the eyes registering understanding. She repeated her plea for him to come and sit by her, more request than command, and after a few moments he uncurled himself and trod nervously towards the cot, his eyes not leaving the woman’s face. The sympathy he saw and the trembling of her lips as she whispered soft endearments, broke the shell of his grief; he slumped on the stool and all of a sudden he leant forward against her bosom and began to sob in great gasps. Catchpoll said nothing but indicated the pair should be left alone by a jerk of his head, and everyone drew back in respectful silence; Mistress Catchpoll to sweep her yard and Drogo and Catchpoll to take a draught of ale.

  The cook looked back at the weeping pair, frowning. ‘Will it do her any good, do you think?’

  ‘Give her something to mother that’s in a worse state than she is and instinct will do the rest. Mind you, she may want to keep the lad by. I may have lumbered you with an adopted son, Drogo.’

  He pulled a face, but it was half smile. ‘If it gives her something to get well quicker for, how should I complain? And besides, he’s of an age when a father could be the moulding of him. Mayhap he’ll turn into a fine cook, or a baker like Nesta. No, you’ve not lumbered me, just given a new turn to life perhaps.’ He sighed. ‘I never thought to have a son to raise at my time of life. We’ll see soon enough.’

  Later in the morning, Catchpoll was able to go to Father Anselm, who had offered to have the girl’s remains interred in his churchyard, and give him her name. In the afternoon, Nerys Ford was laid to rest, with her brother standing between Catchpoll and Drogo, to whose cotte he surreptitiously clung, and in the presence of the undersheriff and a turnout of parishioners who either never knew of her occupation, or were inclined to disregard it, especially in view of the manner of her death. Catchpoll had hidden nothing from Father Anselm, knowing he was a good man and a realist.