‘’Tis only fair you know, Father, since you have offered her “room” in your consecrated earth. I can tell you it was not a life she followed from choice or with any pleasure. It was all she possessed and all she could sell, and she kept what she had to do from her little brother, kept him from seeing and learning things he ought not, and from what little the lad has said, she did everything she could to save his life when the fire took hold, not caring for her own. There could be no more selfless act than that.’
‘God sees all, God judges all, and I am but a humble parish priest. It is not for me to judge, and her end was brought about by one whose calling … Oh dear. I will pray for her soul, assuredly, and see no reason why she cannot lie among my parishioners.’
Father Anselm shook his head in sorrow that a child should be reduced to such a sinful life, and at the wickedness of lustful men. At the graveside he made much of God’s grace and forgiveness, and said not a word about how she had been forced to live. Hugh Bradecote stood very pale and silent, reliving the last burial he had attended, and conscious both of guilt at how long ago it seemed and relief that it had passed swiftly into aching memory rather than lingering as a current pain. The pitiful remains were shrouded only, so at least he was spared the heavy sound of earth upon planks. At the end Drogo hoisted Huw, a little stiffly and with a grunt of discomfort, onto his broad shoulders to take him back to Catchpoll’s house. He gave a promise to arrange matters so the boy could live in the castle even before Nesta Bakere could take her place as his wife. Catchpoll greeted this with relief, for his wife was far from unsympathetic but none too comfortable with her home becoming ‘a refuge for orphans and the sick’.
He hung back and waited for the undersheriff to come up beside him. Bradecote’s face was contemplative and serious, and Catchpoll thought a shadow crossed it, but then it broke quite suddenly into a wry smile.
‘You know, I am beginning to think you a fraud, Catchpoll.’
‘And why might that be, my lord?’ Catchpoll’s voice was full of suspicion and his eyes narrowed warily.
‘Because you make a great effort to show yourself to the world as a miserable, cynical, suspicious and cold-hearted bastard, and I believed it as much as the next man. Yet here, in Worcester, in your own place, there’s been a human side to Serjeant Catchpoll I had not imagined.’
Catchpoll looked aggrieved, almost insulted.
‘I don’t see as how you should think that, my lord, and I’d appreciate it if you didn’t spread such a rumour. This isn’t a job where being “human”, as you call it, is a good thing. You have to be able to stand back, and stand firm, and the lawbreakers have to know that however hard and mean they may be, you are harder and meaner. If I have seemed otherwise, well, it’s a bad thing. I admit I have tried to help Drogo, but even a serjeant can have a friend, “off duty” so to say, and as for the girl,’ he sighed, ‘perhaps there I am growing soft. It was a bad end to a hard life, and she had tried her best. I admired her for that, I admit. I hope you’ll not have cause to notice any other weakness, and I’ll be on my guard against it. Thank you for the warning.’
Bradecote was surprised by the reaction. He had expected Catchpoll to treat the matter as a mild joke, and was taken aback by his serious, and clearly genuine, response.
‘It was not intended as such, but no matter. I would have thought understanding people would have been an advantage, but—’
‘Oh, understanding ’em is fair enough, but you can’t get involved. It is too messy and makes you prone to mistakes. It ain’t an easy thing to master, and it will be one of the things I have to teach young Walkelin. The last undersheriff, my lord de Crespignac, he kept from it by being involved with the whole process as little as possible until the last moment. It worked well enough. You, my lord, are clearly not of the same mind, and that’s your right. You think straight, which is good, but, begging your pardon, you’ve not learnt to think nasty, nor to stand back far enough. It leads to sleepless nights and fatal mistakes, but no doubt you’ll get better time by time.’ Catchpoll conveniently forgot the disturbed rest this case had given him.
The undersheriff put his head a little to one side and the twisted smile returned.
‘And I thank you for your warning, Serjeant. A fair exchange, I think.’ He nodded and turned the conversation to practical matters.
They came upon Simeon the Jew by chance in the main thoroughfare, and the merchant bowed and gave Bradecote a broad smile.
‘I have sent word to Bristow, my lord. As you foretold, I have not had to be parted from my family for long. I thank you for your diligence.’ His glance encompassed both sheriff’s men. ‘It is perverse, is it not, that I have suffered in this from an act of charity.’
‘One misconstrued, mind you, and in the mind of a madman.’
‘Very true. Yet God has been merciful to me. I give thanks for it.’
Bradecote smiled back. ‘And I am glad you have received it and can recall your loved ones to you. May your business prosper, Master Simeon.’ He nodded his acknowledgement of the merchant’s obeisance, and Simeon turned away down a side street.
William de Beauchamp arrived back in Worcester two days later, still limping and in less than joyous temper. The castellan ensured that he was brought up to date with events before ever he called for his undersheriff and serjeant. He might do little, but Furnaux loved to talk. It was a beetle-browed and tight-lipped lord sheriff before whom they came, and with a nervous Walkelin hanging back at a suitable distance to the rear.
The sheriff sniffed and glared at his representatives.
‘Well, there’s still some of Worcester standing, so I suppose I should be pleased,’ he grumbled. He paused for effect. ‘On the other hand,’ and he lifted his left hand and began to tick off fingers with his right. ‘There have been seven fires …’
‘One of which was the result of a bolt of lightning, my lord,’ interjected Catchpoll.
‘All right, six fires; the destruction of several premises; damage to others and the deaths of an old woman and a girl. On top of which, you have caused grievous insult to the castellan’s son-in-law. The only good thing is that the culprit did not come to trial. According to the lord Bishop of Hereford, in whose company I have spent far too long, the Archbishop of Canterbury is increasingly determined that no cleric shall come before the King’s justice, even for killing. It will cause problems, with no blood sentence.’
Catchpoll was outraged. ‘But my lord, it was always understood. The ecclesiastical courts tried those under their jurisdiction but cast out those guilty of capital offences so we could deal with ’em after.’
‘Well, I am not sure we can trust to that much longer. Might be best, if you are sure of your case, that clerics get real justice, and don’t come to court at all.’
Bradecote could not but remonstrate. ‘Without trial, my lord? How can that be justice if it is our decision? And besides, last time we brought you a corpse and you berated us for it.’
The Pershore case had ended in what might be termed trial by combat, and a body to present. De Beauchamp would not normally have objected, except that the Empress Maud had directed that the same man be taken into custody for breaking his oath to her.
‘Well, I’m not berating you for doing it this time.’ The sheriff had little time for niceties, believing rather in pragmatic law-keeping. ‘Saved everyone embarrassment. I have had the prior here, and he is hoping to make as little as possible of the whole thing. He has already sent a message to the lord Bishop of Worcester, suggesting the name of an older, more experienced and worldly wise incumbent for St Andrew’s. That should settle the parish at least, and the townsfolk will calm down soon enough. Thankfully, the dead were not of any note.’
Catchpoll kept his mouth clamped shut, but Bradecote saw his jaw working, and tried to diffuse the situation by changing the subject.
‘My lord, we did also secure the murderers of Maud Brewer, whom you can at least arraign without any trouble.’
‘A woman whose death was not even murder before you started digging.’
‘Oh it was murder from the moment her neck snapped, my lord. It was just that we were all away when it happened and nobody thought to make anything of it at the time.’ Catchpoll had a point to make.
William de Beauchamp made a growling noise that might be considered grudging acceptance.
Catchpoll continued, calling Walkelin forward with a gesture of his hand. ‘And in the solving of that murder I would like to bring to your lordship’s attention your man-at-arms, Walkelin, son of Hubert, whom I selected, in your lordship’s absence, as worthy of training in the craft of serjeanting.’
‘“Craft”,’ the sheriff snorted, ‘more like some black art.’ He studied Walkelin, rather in the manner of a man deciding upon the purchase of a horse. Walkelin was struck by the sudden idea he might be asked to trot up and down and bare his teeth for inspection. Whatever he saw, the sheriff clearly did not have any objections to Catchpoll’s choice.
‘So Serjeant Catchpoll thinks he can train you up to follow his footsteps, does he?’
‘Yes, my lord,’ enunciated Walkelin with great precision and loud volume. The sheriff had never addressed him personally before, and he was so keen not to appear pusillanimous and overawed that his response was completely the opposite.
‘Well, see you attend to him. I doubt there’s a better serjeant to be found for sniffing out law-breakers.’
Serjeant Catchpoll looked at his feet and shuffled in embarrassment.
Emboldened, Walkelin responded. ‘Indeed, my lord, and I have learnt the first rule.’
The sheriff looked quizzically at him.
‘Don’t do anything Serjeant Catchpoll wouldn’t like,’ announced Walkelin.
William de Beauchamp glanced at Catchpoll, whose face bore an agonised expression, and schooled his own features into severity.
‘You are wrong. That is the second rule.’
‘My lord?’
‘The first is never to do anything that I would not like. Eh, Serjeant?’
‘Correct, my lord,’ mumbled Catchpoll, casting Walkelin a glance that he correctly interpreted as ‘you just keep your mouth shut, or else’.
Hugh Bradecote suddenly felt as if he were watching a performance; a dance that was both a bonding and a re-establishment of rank. There was something almost formulaic in the ritual, and he was not part of it. He supposed that sprang from the long association of sheriff and serjeant rather than any intention to hold him at a distance, but he was aware of it rankling.
‘My lord, if the case is now closed, and I am not needed to give evidence in the Brewer trial, am I at liberty to return home? I would like to be there for the Michaelmas feast.’
The three men stared at Bradecote, conscious of having forgotten him.
‘I do not see why not. You are not due for service with me until All Souls. No, go home to your w …’ De Beauchamp paused for a fraction of a second before covering his lapse, ‘wailing brat and your celebrating tenants. I intend to remain in Worcester, or at least hereabouts, for some time.’ He coughed, and said stiltedly, avoiding Bradecote’s eye. ‘I am sorry for your lady. Happens, of course, but a bad business. Furnaux told me.’
Furnaux would.
That was the only reference the sheriff intended to make to Bradecote’s bereavement, and having made it, he was keen to change the subject. He commented upon the general state of the year’s harvest, hoped that Bradecote would also be able to join him for boar hunting before Christmastide, and nodded dismissal.
Hugh Bradecote felt slightly empty. He had performed the task allotted to him and was stood down; and for all that he longed for the clean air, open horizons and simple comforts of his manor, he realised that part of him was now part of the world of de Beauchamp and Catchpoll, and he half envied Walkelin his permanence among the law-enforcing fraternity.
Catchpoll had been reading his expression, and part of his superior’s thoughts were clear to him. He understood, but it was not his problem.
For all his request to be released from duty, Hugh Bradecote did not leave Worcester immediately. He went to the priory and sought out the prior, who shook his head over the turn of events.
‘You were right, my lord Bradecote. This has been a terrible business, and the involvement of a priest …’ He sighed. ‘He was clearly warped of mind, to do such things.’
‘Indeed so, Father. But it is not upon that matter that I have come back to you.’
Bradecote told the Benedictine of the death in childbed, and took a scrip of coin and placed it before the cleric.
‘It is all I have remaining, here in Worcester, Father. I will bring more when next I come upon my duty, but it should be sufficient for several Masses for her soul.’
Father Prior did not actually lay hands upon the money. It would have looked mercenary in the face of bereavement. He nodded.
‘It shall be done, my son, and I will have your lady’s name mentioned in our prayers for the remainder of the month. God has taken, but God has given also, and I shall pray additionally for the good health of your son.’
‘Thank you, Father. It is appreciated.’ Bradecote sighed.
The undersheriff departed before noon, parting from Catchpoll with as little ceremony as he had shown on arrival. His big grey horse lipped gently at his sleeve as he made his farewell, as if eager to be on its way.
‘If there are any more fires in Worcester, Catchpoll, please make sure the lord sheriff is on hand himself.’
‘Aye, my lord, it was a messy business start to finish.’ He paused. ‘And I am sorry … You’ll be glad to see your …’ Catchpoll suddenly realised he did not even know the gender of Hugh Bradecote’s baby, ‘child.’
‘I have a son, Catchpoll. His name is Gilbert Bradecote, at his mother’s dying wish, and yes, I will be glad to get home to see him.’
Catchpoll nodded. There was nothing he could say, nothing he really needed to say. Sympathy would sound hollow, and achieved nothing. Grief and loss were something that hit everyone, and had to be coped with as best they could, each in their own way. Privately, he thought coming away here, and concentrating upon something totally different, had helped the man. Despite the disturbed nights, he looked a lot better than when he had arrived, and perhaps it had broken the cycle of helplessness. He could not have prevented what happened to his wife, but what they had achieved might well have prevented more deaths in Worcester, excepting the loss of little Nerys Ford, and he had been brought back to the reality of everyday life, after staring into the dark abyss. There was a moment of silence, when each looked at the other, and then Hugh Bradecote nodded at Catchpoll, and swung himself up into the saddle.
As the undersheriff wheeled his horse round and trotted out of the castle gate, Serjeant Catchpoll climbed to the top of the gatehouse, where Walkelin had, in the absence of other instructions, returned to guard duty. Catchpoll came and stood silently beside him as they both watched the figure on the grey horse trot out through the Sutheberi gate and set off up the hill at a gentle canter.
‘Seems a fair man, does my lord,’ commented Walkelin meditatively. ‘Not one of the high-and-mighty sort who look down on us ordinary folk as if we was midden. I reckon we’re lucky to have him.’
Catchpoll was still watching the horseman in the distance. ‘Could do worse. Not that any undersheriff has ever looked down on me though, at least not more than once. What you’ve got to remember is that he’s lucky to have us to ferret for him. On their own no fancy lord would have a hope of maintaining the law, him included.’
‘Do you like him, Serjeant?’
At this Catchpoll turned, his face a picture of stunned disbelief.
‘Like him? What in the name of all the saints has that to do with anything? He’s him and we are us. Being “liked” means nothing. If he respects me and knows his position, and I gets to respect him and knows my position, all stays sweet as honey and we work as a team. And as yo
u are now to be part of that team, you’ll do the same. With luck, he’ll see some improvement in you when he comes next.’ Catchpoll was not going to admit that he was warming to the undersheriff more than he had expected, and was indeed beginning to respect him.
Walkelin was pondering a deep thought. ‘I know my position easy enough, but is it you or the undersheriff who is really in charge?’
Catchpoll’s mouth lengthened into his skull-like smile, and his eyes twinkled. ‘What do you reckon?’
‘Right, Serjeant.’
‘Now, since we have no murders to detain us, I thought I would take you around this fair town and point out the criminal element so that you know which stones to look under when crimes are committed, and there’s a report in of the theft of a ham from a smokehouse. Come on.’
The grey horse disappeared from view.
Historical Note
Fire was Worcester’s great enemy, but the fires in this book are of course fictitious. The basic street layout of the city has not altered in the area that lay within the walls, but many of the street names have changed. If you look at the map at the front of the book and one of modern Worcester you could follow in Bradecote and Catchpoll’s footsteps but you have to imagine buildings nearly all single storey, made primarily of wattle and daub walls and with thatched roofs. The churches are in the same place, though much altered, and in the case of St Andrew’s, only the later tower and spire (known as The Glover’s Needle) remain.
William de Beauchamp was the lord Sheriff of Worcestershire, and we have some details of his life in the histories, but his physical look and character are my invention. The greatest fiction is, of course, that there were men dedicated to the taking of criminals. The sheriff was primarily the King’s tax gatherer and militia organiser, and the sheriff’s serjeant would have collected those taken up by hue and cry to bring before the justices, but would not have spent his days ‘policing’.
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