Too Good to Hang

  A Bradecote

  and Catchpoll Mystery

  SARAH HAWKSWOOD

  For H. J. B.

  Contents

  Title Page

  Dedication

  Map

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  About the Author

  By Sarah Hawkswood

  Copyright

  Chapter One

  Ten days after Lady Day, April 1145

  Spring, everyone agreed, had come a little early this year, and the plough-team had made very good progress in the Great Field. Easter would be late in April, and it was thought that nearly all the spring sowing would be complete by Holy Week. Overnight, however, there had been a storm, with howling winds and lashing rain, and that rain had persisted until noon, nature chastising the eagerness of man to claw the rich earth with blades of iron and bury his hopes of the harvest within the gashes. It had now eased off, but the unfurling leaves of the big oak, vivid in their fresh verdancy, wept sporadic ‘tears’ upon the scene playing out beneath them. A blackbird sang its sweet and melodious song into the ozone freshness, a song whose beauty belonged to a different world from the angry voices of the crowd that had gathered about one young man. Thorgar would normally have given thanks to Heaven for that song, appreciating God’s creation, but right now he was breathing fast, and his desperate gaze passed over the crowd gathered about him rather than to the skies. He was confused, frightened and bruised from being dragged roughly from the church. He saw the blood lust in the eyes of many and, in some, a relief that what had been done would be paid for and the incident closed swiftly. Perhaps the priest could have held them in check, but Father Edmund was dead, a crumpled heap with lids not yet closed over unseeing eyes that outstared the living; that stare, the angry villagers surmised, was accusing.

  ‘I found him, that is all. I saw the blood on his face and knelt to see if there was any slight breath to ’im, but there was none.’ Thorgar’s voice had urgency. He held up his hands in a futile plea for mercy, or at least a delay for consideration. The gesture looked as if he had just released a dove from his hold, for he could not spread them wide now that his wrists were bound. ‘That was when Widow Reed saw me, and made the same mistake you all do now. It was not me.’

  ‘But I saw you, heard you, Thorgar, this mornin’, at the door of the priest’s house. You was right angry.’ A raven-haired young woman spoke up. ‘I never seen you that angry afore, not ever. You raised your voice to Father Edmund, you did. Deny it not.’

  ‘It – I-I was surprised, that is all.’

  ‘About what?’ It was Selewine the Reeve who asked the question.

  ‘I had given ’im something to keep for me, and he would not give it back.’

  ‘So you went and killed ’im. Was you checkin’ that he was dead, or searchin’ the body for what he kept back?’ Selewine glowered at the young man, his face grim.

  ‘I did not kill him. I went to Tewkesbury and on my return went to tell him I had been wrong.’

  ‘What cause could you have to be there? ’Tis not a market day.’ A pock-faced man, with a resemblance to the reeve that shouted his kinship without need of words, came straight back at him.

  ‘I went to the Abbey and came to speak with Father Edmund when I returned. I found him as I said. If Widow Reed had not raised the cry, I would have done so.’ The bound man tried to catch the eye of others who might see good sense, but every man dropped their gaze as his found theirs.

  ‘You says that to save your neck, but no good will it do you. The Law is clear, brother. If you will not act you are not worthy of your position as reeve.’ The pock-faced man turned to Selewine, and the look between them was not fraternal love.

  ‘I knows my duty, Tofi. Caught in the act you ’ave been, Thorgar, with the blood of Father Edmund upon you, and hang you must. None will swear oaths for you.’ This was an assertion, almost a threat to any who might think of it.

  ‘I simply found the body. You would see me hang because I said you nay, Selewine, that is all.’

  ‘Nay to what?’ The Widow Reed enquired, curious.

  ‘He wants to marry Osgyth, and I said no.’ Thorgar spoke with a sudden hint of hope. They would see reason, yes?

  ‘Marry her? What foolishness is that?’ the reeve’s brother scoffed.

  ‘But it is true.’ A young woman, scarcely out of girlhood, let go of the hand of a weeping woman with a shawl pulled tight around her and three small children about her, and stepped forward. ‘I did not want to marry him, what with Mother as she is. And besides, he is older than Father when he died.’ She glared at the reeve. ‘I will never marry you, upon my good oath.’

  This divided the men between those nearest Selewine’s age, who felt their manhoods insulted, and the younger men who quite saw how a maid would far prefer their looks and virility. There was muttering by both groups.

  ‘I say again I had no cause to kill Father Edmund,’ cried Thorgar.

  ‘You says that, but ’e lies in the nave, dead,’ came a voice, and the ripple of sound became one, and it was agreeing.

  ‘Look, it was not my hand that killed him. I swear my oath upon my hope of Heaven.’

  ‘Little hope you have of goin’ to Heaven, killin’ a priest in his own church,’ a sharp-faced man snarled.

  ‘Eternally damned, that is what ’e will be.’ That was a woman’s voice.

  Thorgar’s small flame of hope was snuffed out.

  ‘Go home, Mother, Osgyth. I promise you I did no wrong. I am unscyldig.’ He tried to keep the tremor from his voice, and his eyes pleaded with them to obey. Osgyth opened her mouth to remonstrate, and he repeated his command and vow of innocence.

  Tears ran down her cheeks, and she held his gaze for a moment. Her mother set a trembling hand upon her arm, and the pair, with the frightened children clasping their skirts, turned and made their way back through the throng, which drew back as though they carried contagion. Once clear of them, Osgyth turned back one last time, and cried out to her brother and to the crowd.

  ‘I will see justice done, Thorgar, upon my oath.’

  ‘Stay a bit longer and you can see it now, right enough,’ came a man’s voice, and another laughed without mirth.

  ‘Go. It is best,’ murmured an older woman at the back of the crowd and now near to Osgyth, and there was at least compassion in her tone.

  Thorgar begged for a priest to be called, but was met with a refusal. They would not wait for Father Ambrosius to be fetched from across the river, and the Severn was running too high for him to come this day.

  ‘Father Edmund’s death is not upon my soul. My death will be upon yours.’ The tremor was in Thorgar’s voice now. ‘I am unscyldig.’

  His pleas of innocence did not prevent a noose being placed about his neck, the rope cast over the oak bough, and Thorgar the Ploughman, son of Alvar who was ploughman before him, being hauled up and hanged.

  Osgyth wetted her dry lips with the tip of her tongue. It had seemed so clear and simple when she had set off, in the predawn half-light, filled with righteous determination and no small degree of desperation. It had taken her all morning to cover the nigh on dozen miles northward to Worcester from Ripple, and she had been very aware that she was a maid walking alone, and at risk from the travellers upon the road from Worcester to Gloucester who might take advantage. She was tired, stressed, her feet were blistered, and now she was unsure of herself. Everything was too big and noisy and imposing. She had never been anywhere bigger than Tewkesbury, and certainly never seen a castle. She stood in front of its open gates, which she felt would crash closed behind her if she entered, and offered up a little prayer to the Holy Virgin to give her courage. Tears pricked her eyes, and she felt suddenly as if the burden not just of carrying out her promise to Thorgar, but of grief at his loss, crushed her so that she might fall to the ground.

  ‘What is it, girl?’ A woman’s voice, half challenge and half-sympathetic enquiry, caught her unawares.

  Osygth turned to the woman with a besom who had appeared at her shoulder, and whom Osgyth would call old.

  ‘I have come all the way from Ripple, mistress, to seek justice, and now I am here, my heart fails me a little. None will listen in a place like that.’ She nodded at the castle gateway. ‘I asked at the priory about the lord Bishop as our overlord, not knowing where he lives, and then them at ’is palace told me he were north at Hartlebury, and I cannot get there and back to Mother this day. I thought to ask for the lord Sheriff, but …’

  ‘Well, they will not hear you at all if you stays out here.’ The voice was brisk, but then mellowed. ‘And you go in at the gatehouse and ask for Serjeant Catchpoll, who will hear you, aye, and listen also, whether the lord Sheriff does or not. If he asks how you know of him, tell him there’s bream goin’ in the pot tonight. He’ll understand then.’ Mistress Catchpoll pushed Osgyth towards the gateway.

  ‘Speak slow, and think first,’ Catchpoll held up a hand, his voice calm. The girl who had been brought to him at first flooded him with words, though she did not need to give Mistress Catchpoll’s message.

r />   ‘My brother was hanged yesterday for a killin’ he did not do, and the last thing I promised ’im was justice.’ Osgyth tried to slow down.

  ‘Very sisterly, but it tells me little. Where did this ’appen, who is he meant to have killed, and why do you think ’im innocent?’

  ‘I knows it. He said it, and he would not lie.’

  ‘Child, faced with a rope’s end, most men would lie, and no blame to ’em for tryin’.’ Catchpoll had heard such professions many times.

  ‘No, no. He did not do it. I come from Ripple.’

  ‘That’s the lord Bishop’s holding?’

  ‘Aye, and it is our priest, Father Edmund, as is dead, yesterday, after noon.’

  ‘So what ’appened?’

  ‘I was bringing in turnip from the clamp when Alsi Longshanks came running to the house, yellin’ that Father Edmund were dead and that my brother Thorgar killed him. He said they found ’im by the body with his hands all bloodied, and they was goin’ to hang Thorgar from the Village Oak.

  ‘So it was a knife that did for the priest?’

  ‘No, no, he was beaten and Thorgar found ’im, and then Widow Reed found ’im, Thorgar that is, and cried murder.’

  ‘He was not seen actually beating the priest then?’ Catchpoll wanted detail.

  ‘No, but it did not stop him bein’ hanged for it. He swore he was unscyldig, but Master Reeve and his brother said he was guilty, and had to be hanged and so they … they hanged ’im. They said it was the law, and they had to do it. They buried ’im without a priest and up by the Old Road, not in consecrated ground, Serjeant, and ’tis all wrong.’ Osgyth began to weep, in part from relief that she had told her tale to someone in authority.

  ‘That may be, or mayhap it ain’t, but you wait here. Better still, go out the gate and over to the door next to the cooper’s with the barrel outside, knock and tell my wife I says for you to wait with her. Whether your brother did it or not, there has been a killing, and of the lord Bishop’s appointed priest at that, and it would be worth me comin’ to see how things stand, if the lord Sheriff agrees.’ Catchpoll did not say ‘allows’. ‘Go and rest your feet, and I will see what is to be done. Off you go.’ With which he turned and headed across the bailey.

  ‘I don’t see as it makes much odds, Catchpoll. The man is dead, or rather both are dead and buried, and it is likely that this Thorgar was guilty anyway. It looks very like it.’ William de Beauchamp had turned his attention from a letter being read to him by his clerk, and listened to Catchpoll’s recounting of the situation.

  ‘It looks it, aye, my lord, but I would feel the happier just checkin’. Also, if the lord Bishop asks you about his dead priest, you can tell him it was looked into.’

  ‘True enough, though I prefer to keep away from Bishop Simon. He always manages to sound so disappointed about whatever I do, and prattles on about charity.’

  Catchpoll hid a smile. William de Beauchamp was not a charitable man, in thought or deed.

  ‘If you says as I can, my lord, we will go to Ripple today, and report back to you tomorrow. I doubts it will take long.’

  ‘Fair enough, Catchpoll. But not just you and Walkelin. If we are to make a show of this, in case of Bishop Simon asking questions, I want my undersheriff to accompany you, since the dead man was the priest.’ De Beauchamp gave a wry smile. ‘Prising Underserjeant Walkelin from his new wife will make you popular with him.’

  ‘Bein’ sheriff’s serjeant isn’t about bein’ popular, with anyone, my lord.’

  ‘Except perhaps, me, Catchpoll?’

  ‘If I happens to bask in your pleasure, my lord, rare as it is, that pleases me no end.’ Catchpoll’s face did not betray him by a single muscle, and de Beauchamp raised a sceptical eyebrow, then smiled. ‘I will ready a horse and warn the wife. I doubts the fish she went to buy for this evenin’ will keep beyond the morrow so it would be nice if all we has to do is confirm the right man was strung up.’ Catchpoll sniffed, made obeisance, and left William de Beauchamp to the monotone of the clerk. He also sent a man-at-arms to bring the underserjeant from the quayside, whence he had been sent to sort out a dispute.

  Walkelin did not know whether to feel worried or important when the man-at-arms tracked him down, and returned at speed, arriving a little breathless and with the hint of a furrow between his brows, though he looked happy otherwise.

  ‘You sent for me, Serjeant.’ It was both question and statement in one, somehow indicating obedience to an order as a subordinate, yet hinting at something closer to equality. Walkelin also knew that if he asked it as a pure question, the answer he would get would be pithy, since of course Serjeant Catchpoll had sent for him.

  ‘Aye, just could not bear to be without that grinnin’ face o’ yours any longer today.’ Catchpoll’s expression was of mock relief, but the tone was bantering. It was, thought Walkelin, far better than being told not to ask fool-headed questions. ‘We is off to Ripple, ’bout as far south as we can go in the shire, to find out if a murderer has been hanged already or an innocent man taken, by chance or evil intent, for another’s crime. You sorted out the problem between the two shipmen?’

  ‘I did that, Serjeant. They was happy to see sense.’

  ‘Never tell me they did because you threatened to take a spike and put a hole in both their boats? With the witless grin you goes around with these days, you could not “persuade” anyone. Troubles me, it does, for in all else you is becomin’ a good serjeant, but …’ Catchpoll sucked his teeth with a hiss.

  ‘I did not threaten them, Serjeant. I just said as you would come and put a spike through both their boats, and mayhap someone’s foot if they did not come to an agreement.’ Walkelin’s smile broadened into just the grin Catchpoll had bemoaned. ‘Worked a treat, it did.’

  Catchpoll was divided between pride that his reputation was such that even two men who plied the Severn, but never stopped long in Worcester, feared his retribution second-hand, and concern that Walkelin needed to be developing a reputation of his own, and not as everyone’s cheerful and friendly face of the Law.

  ‘’Tis all very well and good, Young Walkelin, but you needs folk to do things ’acos of you, not me. If’n I’s said it the once, then I’s said it an hundred times; it is important that you can make folk think the better of doin’ bad things for fear of upsettin’ “the Serjeant”, rather than us chasin’ about after them when they has gone and committed a crime and faces worse than even what they thinks we could mete out.’ Catchpoll shook his head. ‘Gettin’ wed has made it worse. You go about lookin’ as happy as a rat in a granary, or rather as a man as has forgotten that night is for sleep, and ’alf of Worcester would like to put their fist in your face just out of plain jealousy.’

  ‘I can’t help bein’ happy, Serjeant.’ Walkelin blushed.

  ‘No, but you can help lookin’ like it.’

  ‘And I doesn’t like people bein’ afeared of me.’

  ‘You will live the longer if they do, and some of ’em also. Think of it as part of the duty, lad.’ Catchpoll sniffed. ‘Anyways, you won’t be enjoyin’ a sleepless night tonight unless the reeve of Ripple snores loud and long. Let your mother and that Welsh armful o’ yours know you are away, and be back afore the bell for Sext. I wants you to ride first to Bradecote and fetch the lord Undersheriff, since the killin’ took place on a manor of the lord Bishop of Worcester and the lord Sheriff has some reason of ’is own to want to keep Bishop Simon sweet at present. Catch me up on the Old Road to Tewkesbury as soon as you can. I will be goin’ slower, for I will have the hanged man’s sister up behind me, but we should be there afore it darkens.’

  Hugh Bradecote made no comment upon Walkelin’s demeanour, though he did ask why the Underserjeant had not abandoned his habitual mount, since Snægl had always been a cause of complaint from Walkelin.

  ‘I would have thought you would have selected a more willing and er, less bear-coated, horse now you are established as the lord Sheriff’s Underserjeant.’

  ‘I know, my lord. I had intended to take another, but the beast gave me this long look, sort of sad and reproachful and …’

  ‘Catchpoll will tell you you are too soft, Walkelin, and I think you will regret it before we are halfway to Ripple.’