Vale of Tears

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Vale of Tears Page 9

by Sarah Hawkswood


  ‘But did she not die in an accident?’ Bradecote looked perplexed.

  ‘Oh yes. She tripped and fell down the steps before the hall, and broke her neck.’

  Hugh Bradecote paled, thinking of how his Christina had tumbled down the steps at Cookhill and lost her baby, just before they had met. It had been a terrible thing, but could so easily have been fatal, and then he would never have met her, never fallen in love, never found the happiness that cocooned him now.

  ‘Then how could her brother blame her husband, unless it was that the steps were in bad repair, and he needed a man to blame?’ Catchpoll could read his superior’s face, and filled the hesitation.

  ‘No doubt he did want someone to blame. It is human nature to want to rail against something that lives and breathes, Serjeant. But I think it was because he could not see how she tripped on steps she knew so well without distraction.’

  Bradecote nodded. Christina had been distracted by the news of her lord’s violent death.

  ‘Did he know of any distraction?’ Catchpoll probed.

  ‘He knew she was troubled in mind and heart, and her lord was the cause of it.’

  ‘Seeking entertainment elsewhere, was he?’ Catchpoll offered.

  ‘Seeki—unfaithful? Oh no! I am sure that was not so. She adored her husband, and I am convinced he was equally attached to her.’ Father Paulinus sounded hopeful more than certain.

  ‘You are unsure, Father?’ Bradecote had caught the doubt.

  ‘Brian de Nouailles is not a man who shows his emotions, not his tender ones. His anger is another matter, of course.’ Father Paulinus sighed. ‘He is not a man in whom love of his fellows is strong. But to marry one not of his standing shows how taken he was with the lady’s beauty, and she was very, very fair. Even a man who has put aside the lusts of the flesh would recognise that.’ He smiled. ‘A vision, you might say, and as sweet of temper as of face. He was intensely proud of her looks, however much he hid her origins, and since her death has been shut within his manor, and even more uncharitable than normal. His servants fear even to be in a chamber with him. I have prayed for him, but I doubt he prays for himself, for God to give him consolation. My lady de Nouailles was very pious, and though her days were short upon the earth I am cheered by the expectation that she will be welcomed in glory, and stand among the blessed.’

  The priest’s simple and total faith shone from his face.

  ‘Do you know of any in this village who might have had reason to dislike, or even know, Walter Horsweard, outside the manor?’

  ‘None, my lord. Herluin the Turner sold him a good pear-wood bowl last All Souls, but otherwise I doubt any others had even exchanged words with him.’

  Bradecote sighed, and Catchpoll sucked his teeth.

  ‘I fear in this case the Church has not given the enlightenment you seek.’ The priest sighed.

  ‘Our path is often not clear until the last, Father. However, it means we have not finished our enquiries here.’

  Father Paulinus smiled.

  ‘Ah, and let me make a guess. You have not been offered the manor roof over your good heads.’

  ‘Quite correct, Father.’

  ‘Then you have a choice. You may return to Evesham or you may accept my hospitality.’

  ‘I doubt that will put you in the good grace of the lord of the manor.’ Bradecote gave him a wry smile.

  ‘Ah, but my Lord in heaven is more important, and His example was always to be charitable.’

  ‘Then we accept with thanks, Father.’

  ‘I ought to say, before you leap at my generosity, that the Good Lord did not bless me with cooking skills. I can make bread as hard as the quern the flour was ground with, but he did bless me with good parishioners, who do not wish to see me waste away from poor fare. I give my provisions to several good women of the village, who then make more when they bake bread, or make a pie.’ What he did not say was that he gave far more than was needed and thereby assisted two widows with children, and an indigent old woman. ‘I will have fresh-baked crusty bread, an eel pie, as I have been told, and ale or cider, if you would care to share my simple abode.’

  ‘Your generosity is welcome to us, and we will return before dusk. Our hunting must take us first to the bridge at Offenham, for it seems likely that the murdered man headed that way when he left here, for he was meant to be going into Gloucestershire, yet did not cross in Evesham.’

  ‘My house is obvious, being next door to the house of God, so you will not need directions to find it upon your return, even if the light is fading.’ His smile was a benediction, and they left subtly buoyed by it.

  ‘My lord, does it occur to you de Nouailles might have had a good reason to kill Horsweard, or have him killed?’ Catchpoll mounted, and glanced at his superior.

  ‘You mean if he feared Horsweard telling all he met that he was responsible for his wife’s death? The only thing against that was that she fell, and if he had pushed her you cannot tell me such a thing would not creep from under the stone of secrecy.’ Bradecote frowned.

  ‘If Horsweard harangued him over it, and he was in foul temper, he would not think of the sense. A man who could snap easily, that is what I would say he is.’

  ‘True enough, Catchpoll. But if so, I would think he would be so angry he would want to do the deed himself, and I cannot see him chasing after … Unless he killed him then and there and had the body cast into the river.’

  ‘That would have not been from the bridge my lord,’ reasoned Walkelin, ‘but the nearest quiet spot, flowing but not overlooked.’

  ‘Walkelin is right about that. Mayhap looking at this bridge and asking the villagers will get us nowhere. But such is our duty.’ Catchpoll had the ‘resigned and long-suffering serjeant’ expression on his face.

  Bradecote broke into a canter.

  ‘Let us get it over with, then. Come on.’

  Chapter Eight

  It was but a short ride to Offenham, across the bridge from which they still hoped Walter Horsweard had been cast into the Avon. They came to the slightly rickety wooden structure and dismounted to cross slowly, Catchpoll with his head down, scanning every plank and rail in case something was left that might indicate a struggle or a man’s weight striking heavily. The wood was grey with weathering, and showed knocks here and there, but Catchpoll wanted something comparatively fresh. About a third of the way across he halted, handed his reins to Walkelin, and crouched to view the rail, grunting at the creaking of his knees.

  ‘You know, I think this is new. There is a split in this section, look. If I press it, you can see it is not sound. A man’s weight, a good-size man such as Walter Horsweard, being flipped over it would do this. The weight was only there a moment before going beyond, so the rail did not smash, but it is damaged.’

  ‘But not something we could prove.’ Bradecote was regretful.

  ‘No, my lord, not prove, but it tells us, pretty surely, we are on the right track.’

  ‘What we need is a nice bit of real evidence,’ announced Walkelin.

  ‘I knew we brought him along for something,’ remarked Catchpoll, caustically. ‘It was to state the obvious to us.’

  ‘I meant a nice bit of evidence like a strand of green wool, pulled from a jerkin. One,’ Walkelin paused for effect and reached just beyond where Catchpoll had discovered the damage, ‘like this.’

  He took the fibre from the splinter of oak on which it had become trapped. Catchpoll regarded him with a mixture of pride and disinterest, lest his eagle-eyed success led to him thinking he was clever.

  ‘Now that,’ declared Bradecote, unashamedly admiring, ‘is a very good find.’

  ‘Thank you, my lord.’

  ‘Not proof beyond all possible doubt, of course, since it is possible that the thread and break are not connected, or from another person’s clothing, but I grant it makes it very, very likely. Well done, Walkelin. You spotted it before me there.’ Catchpoll’s tone made it clear that he would undoubtedl
y have spotted the thread in the next few moments.

  Walkelin was unabashed, and grinned.

  ‘So we are nigh on certain Horsweard fell into the river here, whether killed here or ashore. Even if here, there would be little blood and almost no chance of finding a trace now.’ Hugh Bradecote sighed.

  ‘I say here simply because you would have to ask why out this far on the bridge if the killer was just dumping the body. The flow is good enough ten yards back at least.’

  ‘And the bridge would not carry many abreast, so the murderer was probably alone,’ Walkelin chipped in.

  ‘A reasonable assumption.’ Bradecote was thinking ahead. ‘So that means we can finally discount suspects in Evesham unless they followed Horsweard to his angry meeting with de Nouailles, then killed him here and got back to Evesham without anyone knowing they had been missing for at least a whole morning or afternoon.’

  ‘Which then means that the lord of Harvington assumes the place of chief suspect. I have no problem with that, my lord.’ Catchpoll nodded.

  ‘The thing is,’ Walkelin sighed, ‘how in the Lady’s name do we prove it by evidence, let alone getting him to confess it?’

  ‘That is our next hurdle.’ Hugh Bradecote rubbed his chin. ‘I am not convinced that being annoyed at Horsweard bleating on about his blame for the wife’s death would have driven him to murder, and him chasing after the man would have been too obvious.’

  ‘Not unless he did kill her,’ murmured Catchpoll.

  ‘We agreed pushing her is unlikely, surely?’ Walkelin looked from undersheriff to serjeant.

  ‘That is only the most obvious way.’

  ‘Meaning Catchpoll?’

  ‘If the good lady was given strong drink beforehand, or made sleepy with poppy juice.’

  ‘Well, where would he obtain the latter? And if he got her drunk, the servants would have seen, or smelt it on her.’ Bradecote thought it unlikely.

  ‘Then we find out if it was him who picked her up with her neck broke. If he did, who is to say she was really dead at that point and not just in a swoon. He could carry her to her chamber and break her neck before any saw a change in her.’ Catchpoll tried not to sound as if clutching at straws, but failed.

  ‘And this, the man who adored his beautiful wife?’

  ‘The man who seems to have done so, my lord. She was distressed over him, and if not him being wayward with other women, you have to ask what made her unhappy?’

  ‘We may discover more from Father Paulinus, tonight. But first we will go and ask in Offenham in case any saw something suspicious on this bridge the day Walter Horsweard died.’

  They completed their crossing, and trotted into Offenham.

  Here too the inhabitants were mostly out in the fields, and the three men took a detour to speak with them along their strips of ridge and furrow. They asked first for the steward, and a florid-faced woman pointed a begrimed finger to the edge of the pease field.

  ‘Over there, my lord,’ she announced, taking in Bradecote’s demeanour and garb. ‘Alcuin, the abbey’s steward.’

  ‘And have you seen the lord of Harvington in the village about a week ago, or on the bridge?’ asked Walkelin, following up.

  ‘Him?’ The woman crossed herself. ‘The saints be praised, no. When he comes he brings trouble, to us and to poor Alcuin. You ask him about the lord of Harvington, and he will keep you hard by for long enough for me to milk both my goats.’

  Alcuin the Steward was younger than most in his position, perhaps thirty, no more. He was young enough to be keen, and Abbot Reginald, who was his overlord, would have given the undersheriff a glowing testimonial as to his hard work and abilities. He frowned at the mention of Brian de Nouailles.

  ‘You will not get a good word from me about him, that is for sure. I was sent to him, on behalf of the abbey, about the mill.’

  ‘Offenham mill?’

  ‘No, no. You see, the abbey has land the other side of Avon. Has had for hundreds of years, odd gifts and such. There are a tidy few acres of good land a bit below Harvington mill. Now, in the time of the lord de Nouailles’ father, the Harvington mill had a big fire. It was scarce more than charcoal. It would take time to rebuild, and the abbey had been thinking of putting a mill on the other bank to us. It had got to the stage of a leat being cut and the first timbers going up, but then something went awry. It might have been a flood. I am too young to recall. Whatever it was, the project was left unfinished. De Nouailles’ father offered to finish the mill on condition that, having put in the work, he might have free tenure of it, and the land, for two dozen years. This meant Harvington got a mill quickly, and then he rebuilt the original so there were two. It gave good trade with villages lacking a mill. Made de Nouailles a rich man. The lease was up last year, but the new lord claims the agreement was different. He says it was granted for a hundred years, because his father paid good coin also. There is nothing of this in the abbey accounts. He has produced some document to prove his case, but I say as what is a piece of vellum that only he has? The abbey accounts are good for decades, so the fact that this one thing is not there … Well, I do not trust de Nouailles, and I do trust the abbey.’

  ‘So he did not take to your visit?’ Bradecote already knew the answer.

  ‘You might say that. He threatened to set his hound on me and had me thrown down the steps of his hall, with the admonition that he would do the same if the Abbot of Evesham came in person. Lucky I was not to break every bone in my body. As it was, I could not lift as much as a hoe for nigh on a week, and my poor wife had to rub me near all over with some salve her mother invented.’ There was just a hint in his voice that that part was less unpleasant, but then, he was a man in his prime.

  ‘Dangerous steps they have at Harvington’s manor house,’ murmured Catchpoll.

  Alcuin raised an eyebrow.

  ‘You have heard of that, then? Poor lady. Only came across her a couple of times, for de Nouailles kept her close, but I never heard aught of her that was not good, and she looked like, oh, a vision. How she managed, wed to a hell-hound like him, I do not know. Perhaps he drove her to throw herself down them to escape.’ The steward shook his head.

  ‘Can you tell us if you saw de Nouailles on or by the bridge, about a week back?’ Bradecote thought it best to get back to the evidence as well as background.

  ‘He rarely comes this way, and glad I am of it. I was not near the river, for my strips are more inland, but you might ask Brictric. He fishes most days, but today is helping his brother over yonder.’ Alcuin pointed to a pair of figures a couple of hundred yards distant.

  ‘Thank you for your help, Master Steward.’

  ‘Glad I am to help, my lord.’

  They trudged across the clinging soil to where two middle-aged men had halted their labours and were obviously discussing the strangers. Catchpoll introduced himself and asked which was the fisherman.

  ‘That’ll be me,’ the older man, who had thinning hair, and a missing front tooth, admitted.

  ‘We were wondering if you saw aught amiss on the bridge about a week since. Some argument perhaps? Two men? One in a green jerkin?’

  The fisherman frowned with the exertion of memory.

  ‘Green jerkin, you say? I saw a man dressed so, and another with him, briefly. My net got tangled see, so I was looking to sort it. When I looked up, they must have crossed, for I could not see them.’

  ‘Did you recognise either?’ Catchpoll sounded casual, but Bradecote could see the glitter in his eyes.

  ‘Too far away for that.’

  ‘What about the man not in green? Was he taller or shorter than the man in the jerkin? Clean-shaven or bearded?’ Walkelin could not contain his interest, and earned a warning frown from his serjeant.

  ‘I would say shorter. He was not a tall man. He rode a stocky chestnut and had some covering on his head − a cap, I suppose. I saw no beard. They were both leading their mounts. That is all I can tell you.’

  ‘Wha
t part of the day was it?’ Bradecote did not think it vital, but every scrap might help.

  ‘Ah, that I can say. It was early in the afternoon, for sure it was, for after I cleared my net, I made a good catch and took it home well before sunset, cleaned and ready to cook over the fire.’

  ‘Mighty useful you have been. May you catch a big fish next time you take out your net.’ With which ‘blessing’ Catchpoll nodded, and the sheriff’s men headed back to their mounts, grazing at the field boundary.

  ‘And we are one step closer to catching our big fish,’ announced Walkelin, looking very pleased with the afternoon’s investigations. ‘Also with eel pie and ale to look forward to.’

  ‘Ah yes, Walkelin of the ever-empty stomach. Heaven protect us from famine, or you will be eating the lord Bradecote’s horse when he is not looking.’ Catchpoll grinned, and winked at the undersheriff, who laughed.

  ‘I will make sure I count the legs before mounting.’ Then he halted, and his face froze. ‘The horse. We have not asked ourselves what happened to the horse. Sweet Jesu! Walkelin, run back and ask the fisher if he can recall any details of Horsweard’s mount. That will be a start, and as soon as we can, I am sending you back into Evesham to get a full description from Will Horsweard.’

  His voice held a mixture of excitement and self-blame. Walkelin set off at pace.

  ‘The blame lies as much with me, my lord.’ Catchpoll frowned. ‘I should have picked up on that from the first. I suppose we were so busy haring after the widow’s lovers it did not register, not within the town, but by heaven, it should have.’ He shook his head at his own failing.

  When Walkelin returned, breathless, he could only report that the horse was bay or dark brown.

  Father Paulinus was leaving the church after saying Vespers when the three horsemen trotted into Harvington. He thought they looked contented with their day, and raised a hand in greeting.

 

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