Too Good to Hang

5 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