Vale of Tears

by Sarah Hawkswood

  They thanked the miller with polite lies, and in admiration of his stomach’s hardiness. Walkelin also murmured about his sore ears, but Catchpoll just grinned.

  ‘Now that marks you as a man unwed, young Walkelin. A married man could tell you that after a while a husband learns to “not hear” the majority of what his good woman says. The art is hearing the important parts and always seeming to be attending. It is a bit like the way your nose gets used to a smell and then does not smell it, even if you are a fuller or a tanner. All down to experience, of course, and that you only get with,’ he grinned his sepulchral, thin-lipped smile, ‘experience.’

  ‘And when you have finished giving Walkelin the benefit of your many years’ “experience”, Catchpoll, we will bid you farewell and see you tonight in Evesham, at the abbey guest hall. I know you will say we could sleep across the river at the castle, but I had to do service there two years back, and it is a draughty hole of a place that de Beauchamp has erected purely for defence, and seems to have carpenters working on it all hours of the day and night. I tell you, after a month there my head ached all the time. Right, you have more chance of finding news, I grant, for there are no hamlets at the water’s edge on the north bank, but we may find fishermen who use it often enough.’

  ‘I’ll try at Charlton for any who have been down by the river, but Hampton might be a better chance. The ferryman at least might have seen something, if I can get him to admit as much. He’s an observant old bird, like a heron − quiet, but knows his river, of course. I have come across him before, Kenelm the Ferryman.’

  ‘Until tonight, then,’ Bradecote wheeled his grey to the left, ‘and good hunting, Catchpoll.’

  The trio split up. The undersheriff and serjeant’s apprentice made their way along the northern riverbank, stopping at every individual they met, whether a man mending a coracle or a lad fishing for minnows. They all looked blankly at the sheriff’s men, shaking their heads and denying any knowledge of a body in the river.

  ‘I had no real hopes, though the bend here means the river is slower and there is more chance of the body getting caught up, but from here to Evesham the bend puts the slower current with Serjeant Catchpoll. Hampton ferry could be key.’

  Charlton gave Catchpoll as little success as his superior and junior. The villagers were dismissive. If there had been a body in the Avon, well, bodies floated downstream, so why should anyone take note of it? They had seen nothing. Catchpoll was torn between understanding and irritation. They were simple folk with a simple view of the world, and crime did not occur to them, unless it happened to them or theirs, and in a small village, everyone knew their neighbour’s business so well that opportunity for crime was very limited. The reeve was keen to recount how there had been a murder in the village in his father’s time, when a man had killed his wife for infidelity, but since those days the nearest thing they had to crimes were the odd defamatory comment or the emptying of an eel basket. The serjeant moved on along the bank to Hampton.

  Hampton ferry had been worked by father and son for several generations. Some even laughed and said that Kenelm had been conceived on it. Kenelm merely shrugged. What people thought was their business, as long as it did not interfere with the ferry. He saw Catchpoll approaching, and gave him a slow nod.

  ‘Good day to you, Ferryman. The trade plies well?’

  ‘Well enough, Serjeant, well enough.’

  ‘There’s been a body washed into the leat at Fladbury. Man in a green jerkin. I was wondering where he went in, see, and thought to myself, there’s none keeps an eye on the Avon in these reaches more than Kenelm the Ferryman.’

  The ferryman did not bat an eyelid at the compliment.

  ‘And?’

  ‘And so I am asking, if you saw anything green and man-sized pass by here.’

  ‘Friendly, or official?’

  ‘I prefers friendly, but if I don’t get the answers I wants, then it will be official.’

  The ferryman permitted himself a twinkle in his heron-grey eyes.

  ‘In a friendly way, and in no part saying as the thing ever got nigh a bank, you understand, there was something large and green-clad, I might have noticed a-ways downstream about four days back. Now, I isn’t saying it was a corpse, just it was large and green and floating, and I am not talking of a lily pad.’

  ‘That’s fair enough, Ferryman. Much obliged.’ Catchpoll nodded in acknowledgement. ‘And now you can do me another good turn.’

  ‘Which is?’

  ‘Ferry me across to Evesham. Here’s coin for your pains.’

  The ferryman smiled, and in almost companionable silence, the two men, and Catchpoll’s mount, crossed the Avon.

  Chapter Three

  Hugh Bradecote and Walkelin entered Evesham a little before noontide, and shortly before the corpse, which was well shrouded, then covered with a blanket and laid in the hired cart. The days in the river had done it no favours, and Catchpoll had decided that slung across a mule it would attract the flies that the spring warmth was hatching, and give off foul odours if it was sun-warmed. The town was all bustle as they passed through and headed for the abbey, where they might find a cool chapel for the body, and, since it was the hub of the community, might even find someone who would recognise it, or know of a missing man. The abbey church would draw any wishful of laying a plea before heaven, even if they had offered prayers in their parish. The sheriff’s men would also find bed and board, and after the poor fare they had experienced the night before, the abbey kitchens would produce an infinitely more palatable meal.

  Brother Porter opened the gates, and directed them to the prior, who would arrange matters over the disposition of the body. Thereafter Hugh Bradecote went to see the abbot, both out of courtesy and to find out how best to discover the identity of the cadaver. There was still a slim chance that it had come from further upstream, but it was a very unlikely possibility. Walkelin awaited the corpse, and then Serjeant Catchpoll.

  Abbot Reginald was a spare man with a tonsure ringed with silvery hair, and a quiet manner that concealed a firm and decisive character. He frowned at the sins of his fellow men, but was not in any way surprised at them. He offered hospitality to both the living and the dead, and suggested that the brothers, both lay and choir monks, should view the body.

  ‘Many are from the town and its neighbouring manors, and have kin hereabouts, and from all walks of life.’

  ‘It is not pleasant viewing, Father. The body was in the Avon some days, and the fish …’

  ‘The body is destined for corruption in this world, my son, and the brothers should not be overcome by its frailty. I take it you think it still recognisable?’

  ‘Yes. I would say any who knew him well would know him still.’

  ‘Then they will file past at the end of None.’

  ‘Perhaps better after Terce, if they are eating, Father.’

  ‘Ah, I see, yes. You may have the right of it, my lord Bradecote. After Terce then it shall be, and they will add him to their prayers, whether named or not, at Vespers. You say the poor man was stabbed, so there is no chance that it was an accident?’

  ‘If any used the blade in self-defence, one wonders why they did not come forth and tell what happened straight away.’

  ‘Hmmm. Your faith − in the law, that is − is perhaps stronger than other men’s. If it were self-defence but the man who struck home was of inferior rank …’

  ‘The law makes no difference in rank, Father.’ Hugh Bradecote spoke almost severely, and the abbot smiled, a little wryly.

  ‘I am heartened to hear it from your lips, and doubt not that you hold it so, but there are others whose application of the law is not so even-handed. Experience often tells the weak and unimportant that they are ignored.’

  Bradecote frowned. What the churchman said held truth. It was not right, but it was true.

  ‘Had they come to me, then … But it does admit the possibility of self-defence. I would say, however, it is far more l
ikely to be a case of murder.’

  ‘Alas, yes.’ Abbot Reginald sighed and nodded. ‘And finding out the identity of the victim is the starting point for your hunt for the culprit.’

  ‘You do not object, Father, in assisting, though it ends in a judgement and death?’

  ‘The judgement of man is but nothing compared to the Judgement of God, and I do not see it as wrong that evil-doers face the former before the latter. We will give what help we can.’

  ‘Thank you, Father.’ Hugh Bradecote smiled, and the cleric mirrored the expression.

  ‘As I recall, it was you who rescued the archbishop’s envoy and our brothers in Christ before Candlemas. We prayed for their delivery when we heard of their taking, and it is pleasing to meet the instrument of their release. God guided your steps then, and may He do so now.’

  ‘Amen to that, Father.’

  The Benedictines dutifully filed before the body as it lay upon a bier in the mortuary chapel, at the end of Terce. Most crossed themselves; a few with weaker stomachs also put hand to mouth. One by one they shook their heads at the undersheriff as they left. Bradecote had given up, when the penultimate monk gasped, and made a small cry. The sheriff’s men were instantly alert.

  ‘You recognise him, Brother?’ Bradecote tried not to sound excited.

  ‘Yes, my lord. He is kindred of mine. His name is − was − Walter Horsweard. He has − had,’ the monk became flustered, ‘horses for hire and sale.’

  ‘And has he close family, a wife, a mother or—’

  ‘He has a wife, my lord, and a brother also. What grief to the brother, since it is barely over a month since their sister died. I was commiserating with Walter over that but two weeks since.’

  ‘Yet he has not been reported missing? No worries have been raised in the town?’ Serjeant Catchpoll sounded disapproving.

  ‘Ah,’ the Benedictine turned to face him, ‘but he was often about the shire and beyond, purchasing animals for sale. If he has gone away, why should any remark upon him until after he is due home?’

  ‘True enough. Thank you, Brother, for your help.’ The undersheriff smiled dismissal, and the little monk went away, to be consoled by his brothers, and secure in the knowledge that his kinsman would have their prayers.

  ‘I am sorry, my lord, that I did not recognise the body, for I am certain Master Horsweard has come to services here over the years, but alas, whilst every soul is known unto God, they are not known to me.’ Abbot Reginald left the shrieval trio to their deliberations.

  ‘Well, that is a start, my lord,’ remarked Walkelin, with a remarkable degree of cheeriness for their location. ‘So now we go and see the brother and the wife.’

  ‘The widow, Walkelin. So wipe the smile off your face first.’

  ‘Yes, my lord, of course, right away.’

  Amicia Horsweard was not quite what any of the sheriff’s men had expected, having viewed the body of her late husband. She was a vibrant, chestnut-haired woman in her early twenties, decidedly curvaceous, and with near violet ‘come hither’ eyes. It was as much as Catchpoll could do not to whistle through his yellowing teeth at the sight of her, and Walkelin’s jaw dropped quite openly. Only Hugh Bradecote remained unmoved, but then his head was only turned by a certain dark-haired lady residing in his hall and sleeping in his bed.

  ‘Who would have thought the sly old dog would have a piece as fancy as that,’ muttered Catchpoll, under his breath. ‘Interesting.’

  ‘Interesting as in you like the idea of speaking with her, or for what it means to the murder?’ enquired Bradecote, wryly.

  ‘To the death, of course,’ grinned Catchpoll. ‘If she had been his age and homely, well it might be that she would play him false, but far less likely. I mean, does a wife like her sit at home with her embroidery, when her man goes away? And even if she does, are there men scrabbling at her door to see how she sets her stitches? There’d be plenty would be keen to offer succour if she pricked her finger, I am thinking.’

  ‘Keener still to prick—’

  ‘Thank you, Walkelin. We don’t need your views, not while your tongue is near hanging out. Shame on you, with you worming your way into the affections of that Welsh wench in the castle kitchens. Have you got her to stir you yet, like a good pottage?’ Catchpoll gave a bark of laughter.

  ‘When you have both finished, perhaps we might make progress with the matter in hand?’ Bradecote tried to sound as sarcastic as William de Beauchamp would have done, but a muscle twitched at the corner of his mouth and ruined the effect.

  They approached the young woman, sombre-faced.

  ‘Mistress Horsweard?’

  She turned, and her eyes were instantly appraising. Whore’s eyes, thought Catchpoll, who had seen her type many times, unconsciously assessing how much, and how much fun she might manage to get from the encounter.

  ‘I am Mistress Horsweard, yes.’ The voice was pitched low, and she smiled slowly.

  ‘Might we speak with you privately, Mistress?’ Hugh Bradecote found it slightly off-putting, watching this woman play off tricks she must use day in, day out, yet knowing he was about to change her life.

  She looked a little surprised, and his serious tone made her frown, drawing together her prettily arched brows. She nodded and led the way into the front chamber of Walter Horsweard’s messuage, her hips swinging naturally. Catchpoll noted several men let their eyes feast over her retreating rear. There would be men keen to replace Walter, even if they had not cuckolded him.

  The chamber was quite dim, and the lustre of her hair diminished as it was deprived of the life of sunlight. She folded her hands before her, in a gesture that was acquiescent, and calm.

  ‘My lord?’ His garb and speech made her assumption easy enough.

  ‘Mistress, when did you last see your husband?’

  ‘Walter? Why, it must be a day less than a week since. He is gone into Gloucestershire to purchase horses. I can tell you nothing of the business, my lord, and if there is any question of the ownership of any beast—’

  ‘No, no. Nothing of that sort, Mistress Horsweard. I am afraid I have bad news for you. Your husband met with … an accident. He has been found dead in the Avon.’

  She regarded him blankly for a moment. If it was an act, then Bradecote thought it a good one.

  ‘Dead?’ She pouted like a child deprived of a treat, and the frown deepened. She took a deep breath, and Walkelin’s eyes drifted from her face to the heaving bosom without thinking. ‘Was he ale-ripe?’

  ‘That we cannot say, Mistress,’ volunteered Serjeant Catchpoll, ‘but we can say that if he was, it did not cause his death.’

  ‘But if he drowned?’

  ‘He did not drown.’

  ‘You said he was found in the river. And I know he could paddle out of his depth, for he was used to the river from childhood. So he must have been …’

  ‘He was put in the river dead, most like, or senseless at the very least. He was stabbed, probably into the heart, if the blade was long enough.’ Catchpoll did not make it easy. He wanted to see how she reacted to stark truth. Bradecote shot him a swift glance. If they misread her, and she had been a loving and faithful wife, this was harsh.

  Amicia Horsweard paled, her eyes became bigger in the milk-white face, and her hands gripped one to the other as if for support.

  ‘You are saying he was killed by intent, was murdered?’

  ‘Yes, Mistress, we are. I am sorry for it, but that is truth.’ Bradecote tempered the cold fact with a touch of sympathy in his tone. ‘So we need to know of anyone here in Evesham who had any cause, real or invented, to wish him dead.’

  ‘Wish him dead?’ she echoed, softly, and crossed herself. ‘He was successful. That is not always popular, but to seek a man’s death for it − no, surely not.’

  Bradecote thought her genuine enough, but Catchpoll’s eyes were narrow.

  ‘So you think none would want him dead for his horse dealing, but there are more reasons than trade
to want a rival cold and buried, Mistress.’ He had not quite suggested that she might be a very good reason to remove Walter Horsweard, but it hung in the air, nevertheless. Catchpoll was certain that she closed herself off from that moment. Perhaps she had not been involved in any plan, but he would swear she had very good cause to know names they should investigate.

  ‘Perhaps,’ she suggested, tentatively, ‘you might look to my husband’s brother, Will. They were at odds before he departed − on his travels, I mean,’ she coloured at her choice of words, ‘but I could not be sure over what. He will inherit the business, for sure.’

  Bradecote did not ask if there were heirs of Walter Horsweard’s body. If she had children there was neither sound nor sign of them within, and even if there was only an infant at her skirts, a mother would be keen to tell the law that they had a claim of inheritance. Catchpoll was more interested in the speed with which she had offered up a suspect, but only after she had been made a link to the death. If she had simply disliked her brother-in-law she could have mentioned him as soon as they had asked for anyone with a reason to seek Walter’s death.

  ‘What time of day did your husband leave Evesham, Mistress?’ Walkelin had found his tongue at last.

  ‘And where will we find, er, Will Horsweard?’ added Catchpoll.

  ‘Right here.’

  The sheriff’s men turned as one, to see who stood in the doorway behind them. They beheld a man of little more than the average height, but with noticeably stooping shoulders, and as he stepped into the chamber, a pronounced limp. After the ravages of the Avon, they could not tell if this man’s face resembled his brother’s. He might be younger in years, but permanent discomfort had etched lines into the face, and aged it.