Vale of Tears

by Sarah Hawkswood

  ‘But we have no body, we have no horse, we have not even proof it was Aelfric.’

  ‘That part we might, my lord.’ Walkelin had been investigating the corner adjacent to the window, and lifted, with every sign of triumph, a woollen cap. ‘I would think his uncle Leofwine could identify that.’

  Bradecote nodded, but did not look as cheered as Walkelin had anticipated.

  ‘But without his corpse, without Horsweard’s bay, we can only say we have reason to believe Aelfric will not be returning to Harvington.’ The undersheriff was not in optimistic mood.

  ‘Ah yes, my lord, but since he killed Aelfric this morning and then disposed of him, and the horse, he cannot have gone far with either, not since he got back to the manor in time to rescue Leofwine from the knot he was tying himself into.’ Catchpoll was being as positive as he could. ‘If we find the horse, we can give something back to Horsweard’s brother, and if we find the body, we can say with some certainty the man who killed him and tipped him in the Avon is dead.’

  ‘A few days ago that would have sufficed me, but not any more, Catchpoll, not any more.’

  ‘I know, my lord. Well, we won’t find a horse in the rush leavings here, so best we start outside.’ Catchpoll brushed the dirt from knees and palms, and headed out into the light. The others followed, Walkelin tucking the discovered cap into his belt.

  ‘Are we looking for tracks to follow, Serjeant?’ Walkelin looked to Catchpoll.

  ‘It would be to our advantage, and the horses should have left one easy enough to follow. Even had he wished, de Nouailles could not have left here at speed. Upon the road he might meet another traveller, and explaining a body would not be easy, so he will have kept among the trees. We also know the body cannot be buried, both for time to dig a grave and the fact that I doubt very much if the fancy lord − begging your pardon, my lord − has ever lifted a spade, let alone thought to bring one with him. So, if we follows hoof prints I would say we just needs to keep our eyes open for where the body has been covered or hidden.’

  It sounded straightforward enough, and finding the imprints of the two horses’ shoes was not difficult, nor following them for the first half-mile. Bradecote was pessimistic, however.

  ‘I grant we are following his path, Catchpoll, but what was to stop him hiding the body away from the horses? Even thirty paces away we would not see signs.’

  ‘Because if that was the case he would have to stop and the horses would not remain stock-still, my lord, but trample about in the one spot, and that we have not seen.’

  Bradecote gave himself a mental shake. He wasn’t thinking, he was just moping, and moping would not catch Brian de Nouailles.

  Catchpoll was a good tracker, Bradecote knew that from previous experience, and he followed the serjeant’s lead without question, and thereafter in silence. Walkelin marvelled that a man he considered in advancing years could see the trail even when the obvious imprint of hoof in mud was absent. He thought that when they returned to Worcester, he would ask him to teach him the finer points. After another mile the tracks ceased to be of help, because the two horses joined the main trackway, where there were too many imprints to be sure which was which.

  ‘Will he have crossed straight, Catchpoll?’ Bradecote frowned.

  ‘Not if he has any sense, my lord. He would see the way clear a good ways north and south and following the track for even a hundred paces or so would make it the harder to pick him up again. Walkelin, you take that side, and I will take this, and we look for any shoe marks or signs of a horse blundering through the bushes. That will save us time.’

  Hugh Bradecote recalled the last time he and Catchpoll had been seeking a trail off a trackway, and it gave him a sense of perspective. Then it had been his Christina’s life in peril, and what had clawed at his insides had been fear not anger. She was worthy of being a distraction. De Nouailles was not; the man had got under his skin, and that was a bad thing, because it slewed his focus. As Catchpoll had said, the man might get cocky, and make a mistake. It was his duty to see that mistake, not miss it because of a red mist of anger before his eyes. A shout went up. Walkelin, a few paces ahead of Catchpoll, had found the trail again, on the Avon side of the track.

  ‘He would not leave the cover of the woods and cast him, like Horsweard, into the river, would he, Serjeant?’ Walkelin wondered out loud.

  ‘Doubt it. He has seen already how a body comes back to haunt you. If we miss it now, this body may never be found, unless some hound leads a man to it.’ Catchpoll pulled his horse up, suddenly. ‘Here he stopped, so … Scout about, Walkelin.’

  Walkelin dismounted and was going to hand his reins to Catchpoll, then realised that the instruction was merely to set him off first. His superiors dismounted without rushing. After all, if the body was here, it was not going anywhere. They tied their mounts securely, and Catchpoll’s first foray was ahead, but he returned in scarcely more than moments.

  ‘The marks continue, and I had hoped one set would be clearly the lighter, but I cannot be sure, my lord.’

  ‘Will he have just concealed the corpse in a bramble patch, or covered it with leaves and branches, Catchpoll?’

  ‘Neither, my lord, because he did this.’ Catchpoll had hardly gone more than ten paces, and was stood looking down, beside a fallen tree that lay parallel to the tracks of the horses.

  Bradecote and Walkelin joined him. On the other side, face to the tree, and lying alongside it as close as a lover in a bed, was a body. The clothing was dark enough not to draw attention and the cotte had been drawn up a little so that it concealed the whiteness of the dead face of Aelfric.

  ‘Simple, and if you was not looking for it, very effective.’ Catchpoll remarked, climbing over the fallen trunk and pulling the body onto its back. The eyes were open, the pupils dilated in the surprise of death, the jaw slackened as if to voice complaint. ‘Well, we can tell Will Horsweard there is a form of justice, at least.’

  ‘And now we need justice for a murderer, in both senses of the term.’ Bradecote looked down, unmoved. ‘I take it we need not linger here in the hope of finding anything useful?’

  ‘No, my lord, unless de Nouailles dropped his dagger, or a ring or … Ah yes, just for my own peace of mind …’ Catchpoll knelt and looked at the clothing where it had attracted dirt to the stickiness of the gore. The wound was not made by a narrow blade as had been used on Horsweard and the girl, but a dagger driven, said Catchpoll, most likely to the hilt and about an inch and a half wide at that point. ‘Not that I thought he made an end of himself, of course, but it is nice to see it was definitely another weapon. And also, since this is de Nouailles’ dagger, we can be assured that it was not de Nouailles who killed the girl. There was always a slight chance he did, and this one in fact found her when trying to keep out of the way with his uncle.’

  ‘I had not even thought of that.’ Bradecote shook his head.

  ‘And what is more …’ Catchpoll reached to the dead man’s belt, where a knife was still scabbarded. He withdrew a slim blade no more than six inches long. ‘That is the weapon that killed Horsweard and the wench. We cannot get a confession from the dead, but that is as good.’

  ‘Do we take him straight back or hope to find the horse?’ asked Walkelin.

  ‘Let us see if the two horses continue together for a while yet or if it was let loose hereabouts. A little delay will not change matters in Harvington.’ Bradecote wanted to feel they had tried to find it, at the least. ‘He cannot have continued long to the north before turning for home. The body can go across your horse and you can double up behind Serjeant Catchpoll.’

  Walkelin and Catchpoll slung the corpse as directed, and led Walkelin’s mount. It was not long before the sets of hoof prints returned to the trackway.

  ‘My lord, I would guess that he set off a short distance at pace then spooked the spare horse to gallop on alone, and turned back upon his own tracks. We can try further but … I am not sure how far it is to the next
village thisaways, and the beast might have turned off anywhere along the way and wandered.’

  ‘Agreed, Catchpoll. Horsweard must go without his horse. Let us take the body back to Harvington and see how de Nouailles reacts.’

  Chapter Fifteen

  The track that led back to Harvington was straight enough, and by that route it was only about five miles to the manor, so even at no more than a brisk walking pace that would not dislodge the body, it did not take them long to reach the junction in the village. Walkelin dismounted there, and went to see if Father Paulinus was at home or in the church, while undersheriff and serjeant turned up to the manor itself and presented themselves at the gates. With Aelfric’s body in view there was no question of their not gaining entry.

  A man was sharpening a sickle on a whetstone; a maid was carrying a brace of partridge to the kitchen for the lord’s meal. Both stopped and stared, transfixed.

  Bradecote and Catchpoll brought the horses to a halt in the middle of the bailey, and dismounted. Bradecote was about to ask for the steward when Leofwine appeared from an outbuilding. He too stood still for a moment, making the bailey a grotesque tableau of shock, then he came forward, his face a grim mask.

  ‘We found him, a little off the northern road, about four miles from here. This is − was − Aelfric?’ Bradecote was emotionless.

  ‘Yes, that is my brother’s son. How did he die?’

  ‘He was murdered, stabbed.’

  ‘Like the horse trader and Hild.’ Leofwine made the connection immediately.

  ‘He died by a knife, but not the same knife, nor the same hand neither,’ Catchpoll sought to quash the idea at the start.

  ‘How can you know?’

  ‘Because it’s my job to know, and I have been doing it many a year. The blade was quite different, and there are other signs …’ He left the end of the sentence hanging, cryptic, since his eye caught Brian de Nouailles emerging from his hall, and introducing doubt into that proud skull would be of use.

  ‘What is this?’ De Nouailles was not quite shouting, but making it obvious who was in command, and the statement was superfluous; it was perfectly clear what ‘this’ was.

  ‘De Nouailles, we have found this man dead by violence, off the road to the north, and he was living at sunrise.’ Bradecote wanted any suggestion that he might have been dead some time as little as Catchpoll wanted folk to imagine a single killer. If everyone was a little on edge and questioning, it was all to the good.

  ‘You have a nose for corpses, you sheriff’s men.’ De Nouailles made it sound as if they were a different species. ‘Pity you have not the same nose for murderers.’

  ‘Oh, I think you will find that we do, de Nouailles,’ riposted Bradecote, with a slow smile. He was consciously not showing the courtesy of calling de Nouailles ‘my lord de Nouailles’ any more; no longer would he pretend respect. ‘It is just that it is not always such an obvious stench to begin with, not quite as clear.’

  Catchpoll’s thin lips compressed to avoid breaking into a grin at that, especially seeing the lord of Harvington’s eyes snap with anger, but he was a man who would not admit defeat easily.

  ‘But it is clear what is going on. You, for all you prance around as the sheriff’s officer, have not been able to protect the people of my manor from thieves and murderers. Aelfric was on his way back home from discharging his task at Beaudesert, and must have been set upon by the same men who murdered Horsweard, even if it was a second who did the deed with the knife.’

  So he had heard what Catchpoll said about the knife, thought Bradecote. He noticed Walkelin and the priest enter the bailey. Father Paulinus seemed to sag a little, and crossed himself at the sight of the body, still slung across Walkelin’s horse.

  ‘There were two, you think? Why?’ Bradecote let that sink in. ‘Yours is a simple answer, but not one we think right. You see, we found a cap in a broken-down cottage in the woods rather nearer Harvington.’ Bradecote looked to Walkelin, who pulled the cap from his belt and handed it to Leofwine. ‘Is that your nephew’s?’

  ‘Very like, my lord, in size and colour.’ Leofwine turned it over in his hands.

  ‘And a horse was seen,’ continued Bradecote, ‘a horse that matches the description of Walter Horsweard’s bay, with a big nose and white off-hind. It is odd therefore, that the body was found further away.’

  ‘Not at all. One must have kept Aelfric’s horse, which is of course my horse. They killed my loyal servant Aelfric, even taking the cap from his poor head, leaving his body to be devoured by animals, caring not that they kept him from hallowed ground, then went to earth in the cottage for the night.’

  ‘There was blood within the cottage, fresh blood.’ Catchpoll added to the things to be explained.

  ‘Then there must have been a falling out of thieves at the place in the woods. One man killed the other, and rode away with Aelfric’s chestnut cob, which must have been tethered the other side of the building, and also the horse trader’s beast. No doubt he is miles away by now, and there is no justice for a man of Harvington.’

  This speech was greeted with murmurs of approval among those in the bailey, who, having stared their fill at the body, now regarded the sheriff’s men balefully. Leofwine fanned the flames of their discontent, turning upon Bradecote.

  ‘What the lord says is truth. If you, my lord Undersheriff, had done what you said you came to do, find Horsweard’s murderer, my nephew, the last of my blood, would be standing beside me now, would be ready to follow me in service as steward, not a poor, lifeless corpse to be dropped into the earth.’

  Hugh Bradecote debated whether now was the time to declare Aelfric as the murderer of Walter Horsweard and almost as certainly the maid Hild. He felt de Nouailles looking at him, sensing his frustration, enjoying his discomfort. It was again Catchpoll who spoke up.

  ‘Sounds a good enough story, my lord, but there is no second corpse, and Aelfric has not been dead long enough to stiffen, so he was not killed yesterday.’

  De Nouailles ignored the second part of this.

  ‘The surviving brigand took the body of his former companion in crime and cast it away.’

  ‘Now there’s a thing. I have been chasing thieves and murderers for a score years and over, and never have I come across a man who kills, in anger, in a place none are likely to find, and then takes the body with him upon a little jaunt.’

  ‘There is always a first time, and since you found the place, perhaps the murderer did not consider it a place nobody would find. It seems he was right about that.’

  The undersheriff came to a decision. After all, it was de Nouailles who had just stressed the colour of Aelfric’s horse.

  ‘We were given a description of the man, one man, mark you, who killed Walter Horsweard. This was by a man of Offenham, who saw two men and horses upon the bridge, one man distinctively dressed in green, as Horsweard was, at the right time on the day he left here. That was the same day Aelfric was sent on his travels. The man with Horsweard wore a cap, and rode a chestnut cob. Odd that we find a cap and have signs of Horsweard’s beast in the same place, and you yourself said Aelfric generally rode a chestnut cob, which belongs to you.’ In truth, some horse droppings and hoof prints were not signs it was the big-nosed bay, but the sighting was as good a proof.

  ‘Are you saying my nephew killed the horse trader?’ growled Leofwine. There was, thought Catchpoll, no surprise in the question, more a sense of ‘prove it’.

  ‘All evidence points to it.’

  ‘What reason might he have, then? He had seen the man but once or twice here and never spoken with him as far as I know, never mentioned him.’

  ‘Personally? None, I suspect, but then he was a loyal servant, was he not, de Nouailles?’ Bradecote stared at the lord of Harvington, challenging him.

  ‘He was. I will not say otherwise, and I may have cursed the man Horsweard for reminding me of my lady wife’s death when it was a raw wound, but that was no instruction to kill him, a
nd I cannot think it likely Aelfric mistook the matter.’

  De Nouailles subtly introduced the idea that if Aelfric was proved beyond doubt to have done the killing, it was not done at his orders. It was clever, and just what Bradecote had feared he might do from the start.

  Walkelin was watching the uncle, and there was just a flicker as lord disassociated himself from man. Beside Walkelin, Father Paulinus gave a soft sigh, and closed his eyes in prayer.

  ‘And he had no reason to kill the girl.’ Leofwine’s voice this time held the hint of an unspoken ‘did he?’, a wish that it might be true rather than a certainty. He recalled the questions his lord had put to him, the questions he had not asked himself. He asked them now.

  ‘The wound was, almost certainly, from the same knife, that much we know.’ Catchpoll did not waver.

  ‘Speculation based upon hope, no more. It would be tidy for you, no doubt,’ de Nouailles sneered.

  ‘The man I saw with your steward, before I was hit, was not you, my lord,’ declared Walkelin, daring to put himself up against a lordly man, ‘and he rode Horsweard’s horse and wore a cap.’

  There was a murmur among those in the bailey, and by now everyone had come from their tasks to watch, and to listen.

  ‘And yet this morning you told me it was you who was with Steward Leofwine, de Nouailles. Why did you lie?’ Bradecote flung the question at him.

  De Nouailles growled, and his hand went automatically to his sword hilt at the open insult. Those gathered in the bailey looked at him, with just the faintest of doubts. Then he smiled, though not pleasantly.

  ‘I heard you pressuring my steward, in whom I have absolute faith. I just wanted you off his back.’ He paused, and then added, ‘Besides, I really do not like you, Bradecote, and I liked the look of disappointment on your face. I had no more reason to think Aelfric killed the wench than any man here.’ He shrugged. ‘So, I lied. Is telling you a lie a crime I can be flogged for?’