Vale of Tears

by Sarah Hawkswood

  ‘Yes, Serjeant.’ Walkelin did not seem at all abashed, and kept a grin right until they stood on the doorstep of the coppersmith’s in Colestrete. He hammered in an official manner upon it, and stood aside to let Serjeant Catchpoll and the undersheriff take position. Robert the Coppersmith opened the door cautiously. Catchpoll stepped over the threshold, pushing the man to one side.

  ‘What …?’

  ‘The lord Bradecote, Undersheriff of the Shire, and I am Serjeant Catchpoll. We want to speak to you, about your goings on.’ Catchpoll was intentionally non-specific as to which ‘goings on’ these might be.

  Robert the Coppersmith looked panicky.

  ‘But I—’

  ‘Sit down.’ Walkelin pushed him down onto a bench, thereby making him feel vulnerable. That was a trick Catchpoll had taught him.

  ‘You are a nasty piece of work.’ Catchpoll, who looked even nastier, snarled at him. ‘Can’t keep yourself off other men’s women, or indeed innocent maids who don’t want you pawing them at all. You think it isn’t against the law, excepting that of the Church, but look where it leads you.’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘Walter Horsweard.’ Bradecote dropped the words like a stone into a pool, and watched the ripple of fear cross the coppersmith’s face.

  ‘Murder,’ murmured Catchpoll in the man’s ear.

  ‘It wasn’t me,’ gabbled the coppersmith, shaking.

  ‘Prove it.’ Bradecote sounded very cold.

  ‘I … I …’ He swallowed convulsively. ‘The day he left, Amicia came to me, straight away. She was here until after noontide.’

  ‘So? That is just the morning.’ The undersheriff was clearly not impressed.

  ‘Ah, but then I called in the wench.’

  ‘Which wench?’

  ‘I just calls her “Wench”. The one from next door.’

  Catchpoll could be very swift when he chose. He grabbed the man’s arm and twisted it up his back so he half-rose off the bench. The position was uncomfortable, and the muscles began to tremble in the coppersmith’s legs, but if he relaxed the shoulder risked dislocation. Bradecote did nothing.

  ‘You do not even bother to find out her name, you mongrel. If I had my way, Robert “Hengestgehangod”, you would be gelded in public as a warning to others of your ilk.’

  ‘Will she vouch for this?’ Bradecote folded his arms.

  ‘Of course she will or—’ The man choked, having nearly betrayed himself.

  ‘Fetch her, Walkelin.’ Bradecote’s command was terse, not, Walkelin knew, for any reason other than to show power to the frightened coppersmith.

  ‘Straight away, my lord.’ He sounded efficient, and went out, only then wondering which side the girl lived. He could hardly knock at a door and ask if a daughter of the house was being bedded by the man next door. He groaned, but was then relieved to see a girl with a pail of water heading to the small dwelling on the left. She was pretty, in a bedraggled way, and youthful.

  ‘Maid, I am the lord Sheriff’s man. Did you speak with my serjeant, yesterday, a grey-haired man?’

  She nodded, wary.

  ‘Then you need to come in here a moment.’ He saw her concern. ‘You are quite safe, but we have to ask a question of you.’

  She approached slowly, and he opened the door wide to let her in, still carrying the pail. At the sight of Catchpoll she looked less scared, and when she saw the fear on the face of Robert the Coppersmith, all her own faded to nothing.

  ‘I am Hugh Bradecote, Undersheriff of Worcester.’ Bradecote smiled, and his voice invited confidences. ‘Will you give us your name, for your neighbour does not seem to know it.’

  The girl looked down at the coppersmith. He was sweating.

  ‘My name, my lord, is Aelswith.’

  ‘Then will you tell us, Aelswith, if this,’ he pointed at the coppersmith and paused before adding ‘man’, ‘took you to his bed the afternoon a week ago, after Mistress Horsweard departed. A week past.’

  She paused. Part of her wondered whether the truth would help or harm the man she loathed, but in the face of the undersheriff, she spoke the truth.

  ‘My lord, I cannot say for sure which days, for they are often, and as one in misery to me, and the Mistress Horsweard comes many days. But about a week since she came in the forenoon, which is odd, and he,’ she pointed at the seated man, ‘made me come here in the afternoon. My mother was told he needed the floor sweeping and the place making fresh, but I neither swept nor cleaned.’

  Bradecote did not ask what had occurred. Her face spoke volumes.

  ‘Then she gives you good excuse of this crime, Master Coppersmith, and you will remember that, for whatever “debt” you make her pay is as nought from now on. If it comes to the notice of the law that a finger is laid upon this maid,’ and he gave her the title generously, ‘then you will be arraigned for rape, and you know the penalty.’

  The girl stared at Bradecote, then at Catchpoll, as the words sunk in. She was free, but she had also aided this man. Her bosom heaved.

  ‘Never a finger, remember,’ she growled, and threw the contents of the pail over the coppersmith’s head. She bobbed a curtsey to the undersheriff, and turned on her heel, head held high. Catchpoll let go of the coppersmith’s arm and moved to open the door for her. She looked at him.

  ‘It was only water. How I wish it had been a soil bucket.’

  Catchpoll nodded, and shut the door behind her.

  Robert the Coppersmith was spluttering.

  ‘And I agree with her, for water is too clean for scum like you. Your neck is safe this time, but you curb your lust or it will end in a noose.’ Bradecote, noted Catchpoll, was developing a nice line in ‘disdainful bastard’. He approved.

  Robert the Coppersmith wiped his eyes and gibbered.

  ‘You know,’ remarked Walkelin, as the sheriff’s men walked down the street, ‘I bet that shrank his ardour, in more ways than one.’

  John Pinvin was working by the open door of his premises, setting neat stitches in the junction of nose band and cheekpiece, with needle, thread and palm. He only looked up as the shadow of the trio cut out his light. He nodded greeting.

  ‘Are you John of Pinvin, the bridle-maker?’ Catchpoll was being official this afternoon.

  ‘I am. Who asks?’

  ‘I do, Hugh Bradecote, Undersheriff of the Shire.’ This was to be a double act at least.

  Master Pinvin laid down his work and rose to make polite obeisance.

  ‘My lord.’

  ‘We wish to talk with you about Mistress Horsweard, and the death of her husband.’

  The bridle-maker looked flustered.

  ‘Best come within, my lord, for fear of ears.’

  Bradecote wondered what Amicia Horsweard saw in him. He had the faintest of stoops, and the hair on his pate had shown thin as he bowed. He did not seem lecherous, either.

  Pinvin offered the undersheriff his stool, and stood, hands clasped together before him, more as if about to make confession to a priest.

  ‘Mistress Horsweard comes here to you.’

  ‘She does, my lord.’

  ‘And gives herself.’

  ‘Sometimes. Not often. Most times we talk.’

  ‘Talk?’ Walkelin sounded amazed. ‘A woman like that and you “talk” to her?’

  ‘I do. She is a lonely woman. Her husband is − was − a good man, but does not understand her needs.’

  ‘She needs to talk?’

  ‘She wants to learn, to be useful with her hands.’

  Walkelin’s mind boggled. Bradecote had to bite his lip at his expression.

  ‘You mean she wants to stitch?’

  ‘Aye, my lord. Her father was a saddler, but died when she was small. I reckon as it is in the blood.’

  Bradecote was not convinced by the reasoning, but the man seemed to be telling the truth.

  ‘And now she is widowed?’

  ‘When her mourning is done, then if she will have me, I woul
d wed her.’ He made it seem so simple.

  ‘Master Pinvin. She has seen others beside you.’

  ‘Robert “Hengestgehangod”. Oh, I know about him.’

  ‘And you care not?’

  ‘I care, of course I care, but what can a man like me do about it? Until now, of course. She is angered by his attitude. Well, mine was none so brave yesterday, but I am determined now. I will stand by her if she needs me.’

  ‘I think she may sooner than you think, for her brother-in-law has the property now, and there is no love lost between them.’

  ‘Then if she comes, I will take her in.’

  ‘And did you assist her coming?’ Catchpoll queried.

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘Did you kill, Walter Horsweard?’ Bradecote was not going to be obtuse.

  ‘No, my lord. I am a sinner, but my sins do not extend to killing a man.’

  ‘Though you cuckolded him.’

  ‘I know. Yes, it was wrong, and I know it, but she … I would sin for her, with her, but not that sin. On my oath not that.’

  Bradecote was inclined to believe the man. He stood before him, calm now he had broached the subject.

  ‘And can you prove that at all?’

  ‘I live alone, my lord. Barring her visits there is none to speak for me. When did Walter Horsweard leave?’

  ‘A week ago.’

  ‘Then,’ he shook his head sadly, ‘I can do nothing except swear that I did not do this thing. I did not leave here, but to buy bread and onions. I am no cook. She cooks for me sometimes. That is nice. None will remember me, my lord.’

  The bridle-maker stood there, sad-faced but very still. Catchpoll saw what the boy had seen, the stillness of the man. He judged characters a lot. Any man could be brought to kill given enough fear or anger or both. John of Pinvin possessed very little of either in his soul. He would almost swear an oath for him. He looked at Bradecote, and shook his head slightly.

  ‘There is one who does, Master Pinvin. The lad Godwin says you rarely leave your premises and he did not see you leave about the time of Walter Horsweard’s departure.’

  ‘Ah, he is a good and honest lad. I fear his mother has kept him from me, knowing of Mistress Horsweard’s visits. A shame that it is so.’

  ‘Master Pinvin, I would believe your word, but cannot prove it correct, so you will not leave Evesham until we tell you.’

  ‘I have not left Evesham since last Nativity, when I went back to Pinvin to bury my mother, my lord. I will be here.’

  The sheriff’s men left, and headed to the reason for their interviews, the alluring Amicia Horsweard.

  The Widow Horsweard was busy preparing for her husband’s wake. She looked suitably solemn and thoughtful, but the cause of this was not her bereavement, but her future. The meeting with Robert the Coppersmith had been as her head told her it would be, and as her heart hoped it would not. He had shrugged at Walter’s death, and only shown interest when she had declared the sheriff’s men were hunting for a killer. He saw risk to himself and sought to avoid it. His first thought was that she was a fool to have come to him, and then he decided it would be better if Amicia ceased her visits, at least for a while. After all, he thought, there was always the girl next door if he needed anything.

  Amicia Horsweard faced facts. Robert, however wonderful a lover, was never going to leap into marriage as he did into bed. She had some harsh words for him, but he just smiled.

  ‘My sweet, do you really think I could not find another to fill your place within days? Evesham has plenty of willing women who would like to find out if what they have heard is true.’

  ‘Was it all just lust, then?’

  ‘Oh yes. I have a lot of lust.’

  She had told him what she thought of him, and in uncompromising terms, then left, to seek the more gentle comfort of John Pinvin.

  The bridle-maker had opened his door to a woman with tears on her lashes. His instinct was to dry them, and make her comfortable. He had enjoyed her favours occasionally, often enough to be bewitched by even the memory of them, and to wonder at why she offered them to one such as himself, a very ordinary man, but his feelings for her were overwhelmingly those of quiet devotion and a desire to look after her. That she had a husband to do that troubled his conscience, but only when she was not present. He was so unlikely a home-breaker he found it hard to even see himself as the adulterous lover.

  He was not so foolish as to want to put his neck into a noose for her, however, and had been nearly as keen as the coppersmith to hang back for a while, although he held out the promise of care ‘as soon as this nasty business is over’. It was all Amicia could get from him.

  The arrival of the sheriff’s men at her door put the seal on a miserable morning. She glared at them, and only reluctantly admitted them into the chamber. In normal circumstances, Walter’s coffin would have been there, but Will had thought it best the body be shrouded and coffined at the abbey before being taken to the parish church later in the day for the funeral rites. It might only be April, but after some days, the corpse had a heavy smell of death to it.

  ‘I am busy, my lord, for I have to bury my husband this afternoon. Indeed, it would be better if you returned tomorrow.’ She sounded petulant, and Bradecote disliked being told what he should do.

  ‘No, it is better now. If you answer us without dithering, we shall not delay you. You may wish to sit.’ His tone commanded, and was not placatory. He was telling her she might sit in her own chamber. She looked at him with an expression of dislike he found far less disconcerting than her appraisal of the day before.

  She wavered, then sat, hands once more folded in her lap.

  ‘Ask me the questions then, my lord, and let us be done.’

  ‘You said your husband left a week ago for Gloucestershire to buy horses.’

  ‘Yes, he did.’

  ‘Yet he crossed the Avon neither at Hampton ferry nor by the Bengeworth bridge.’

  ‘I do not understand.’ She frowned.

  ‘Nor do we, if he was heading south,’ murmured Catchpoll.

  ‘Have you any proof that is where he was going?’ Bradecote continued.

  ‘I … Perhaps he said so in front of the servants. Wait, Will knew. Mind you, he might as easily deny it just to get me into trouble.’

  ‘And speaking of getting into trouble,’ Catchpoll grinned unpleasantly, ‘how did your lovers react to the news of your loss?’

  She paled, and her eyes widened. She looked from Catchpoll to Bradecote, and saw no way out by playing the poor weak woman act, so she held up her head and answered brazenly.

  ‘Neither welcomed me with open arms.’

  ‘So they did not want Walter dead?’

  ‘Robert certainly did not,’ she sneered. ‘He prefers his fun without bindings.’

  ‘And this comes as a surprise to you?’ Catchpoll raised an eyebrow. ‘You believed him devotedly in love, did you? More the fool you. He does not even keep a cold bed when you are not in it.’

  She looked angry, shocked. That he was a natural philanderer she could appreciate, but that he bedded other women, whilst also conducting an affair with her, outraged her. Catchpoll was not going to betray the unwilling girl, but smiled as he drew a picture of him filling her place as soon as she left his house.

  ‘He swore to me …’

  ‘That sort swear a lot, but at least you have the bridle-maker, eh? Or is he running scared too?’

  Her eyes narrowed in dislike.

  ‘That is different. He is simply cautious.’

  ‘Would not want to marry a woman who might have got rid of her first, I suppose,’ chipped in Walkelin.

  ‘No!’ She looked horrified.

  ‘“No” he wouldn’t, or “no” you did not kill Walter?’ responded Bradecote, swiftly.

  ‘I did not kill my husband.’

  ‘You betrayed him with other men,’ Bradecote pressed home the point, ‘and all Evesham seems to have known it. Did you simpl
y not bother to be discreet?’

  ‘You do not understand.’

  ‘Clearly. So explain to us.’

  ‘Walter was a good man, but … not a good husband, in private matters. He understood I have … needs.’

  ‘Very understanding of him.’ Catchpoll sounded cynical. ‘So he patted you on the head and told you to trot off to any man who could oblige?’

  ‘I would not leave him, he knew that. And if ever he … I made no objection.’

  ‘Generous of a wife, that,’ Catchpoll addressed the remark to Walkelin. ‘You be guided by that. Only pick a wife who does not raise an objection to lying in your bed with you.’

  ‘Indeed, Serjeant. I will remember that.’

  Amicia Horsweard looked from them to Hugh Bradecote.

  ‘Walter was not young. I looked to the future, to possibilities, yes, but I did not want him dead.’

  ‘And might your lovers have?’

  ‘Robert, plainly not, and John Pinvin is a good man, a patient man. If you want someone who might find it better if Walter was dead, ask him?’ She pointed past them.

  They turned, and saw Will Horsweard standing in the doorway, his face almost puce with anger.

  ‘You remain here until the wake is over, and then you get out, whore! Go to whoever will take you, since they have been taking you often enough while my brother breathed.’

  Bradecote thought his attitude not unfair, but said nothing.

  ‘I can see as you might feel aggrieved, Master Horsweard, but perhaps you ought to just tell us why you and your brother were at odds before he left.’ Catchpoll sounded very reasonable.

  ‘It was nothing.’

  ‘Tell us this nothing, then,’ Bradecote commanded.

  ‘He was bemoaning Edith again.’

  ‘Edith? His first wife?’

  ‘No. Our sister.’

  Bradecote suddenly recalled what Brother Porter had said.

  ‘The one you and your mother married off to a lord.’

  ‘It was a good match.’ He sounded somehow defensive.

  ‘But?’ Catchpoll had caught the tone too.

  ‘She loved him. That is no reason to berate me. And accidents happen. If the man did not take us to his bosom, what of it?’