‘And this makes you guilty? Do you not love your lady wife?’
‘I do, with every fibre of my heart.’
‘Then …’
‘Father, my first wife died before Michaelmas last, giving me a son, and though I was fond of her, I never loved her, never had a passion for her as de Nouailles had for his Edith.’
‘Tell me, my son, did you make her unhappy by lacking passion for her?’
‘I … I do not think so, Father. She loved me, at least she was driven almost to panic to try and fulfil what she thought might be my wishes. I was never cold, not harsh with her, beyond what any man says on occasion when women fuss too much about them.’
‘Then consider your lady, and then the lady de Nouailles, who loved her lord, and was indeed adored. Your lady departed this life having triumphed in presenting you with a son. The lady of Harvington died wracked with worry and fear and guilt. His passion for her did not give her joy, because he is a man in whom all passions are excessive, be they love or hate, devotion or greed. What was your late wife’s name?’
‘Ela.’
‘And the lady who holds your heart now, she loves your son?’
‘My Christina? As if he were sprung from our union.’
‘I shall pray for them both at Compline, and for you also, my son. Come to church with me and lay your thoughts before God, and let him take away the burden of guilt that should not lie upon you.’
Walkelin came in, rubbing his hands together to take off the chill of an April evening, and in anticipation of a good meal. He had no cares, nor did he study his superior and wonder at his. When he joined the undersheriff in the little church, his prayers were the simple ones of thanks for a full belly and a safe and peaceful night for his mother.
In the undercroft of his own hall, Brian de Nouailles sat in the dark, and his cheeks were wet. He felt no remorse for Thomas the Clerk, for Walter Horsweard, or for Aelfric, but Agatha’s accusation rang in his ears like the interminable toll of a passing bell. ‘You killed her as sure as if you had broke her neck with your bare hands.’ He had denied it so vehemently to himself these weeks, but could not avoid facing it now, and had he his dagger he would not have attempted escape but self-slaughter. He whispered her name, over and over, seeing her face before him, the grey eyes large with sorrow, so real to him that eventually, long after Hugh Bradecote had taken up his own watch outside, and he passed from full wakefulness into the half-sleep before oblivion, he felt her hand upon his cheek, wiping away his tears, and her own falling upon his clasped hands.
The dawn saw Walkelin yawning over his second watch even as a grubby pink smudge grew upon the eastern horizon. It was well past full dawn when his superiors roused themselves, and found that Father Paulinus had slipped out to his orisons without waking them. They waited for his return before completing their preparations for departure.
‘I am sorry that we have been the harbingers of turmoil, if nothing else, Father.’ Hugh Bradecote’s smile was twisted.
‘I think, my lord, the turmoil was already here, seething like a pot about to boil over. You doused the fire.’
‘You have given us not only shelter but good company and wise words. Thank you.’
‘The shelter was built before my time, and the words, if wise, are from God, but thank you for the compliment about the company. You will have it a mite longer for I shall accompany you to the manor, to offer what I can to your prisoner, and to say farewell to your serjeant-in-training. If his appetite for the truth matches his appetite for food, he will be a great asset to you. The women who cook for me will be holding him up as an example to me, when I do not finish the portions they provide me, for weeks to come.’
Bradecote laughed, and Catchpoll remarked that perhaps red hair made for a greater capacity for food.
Their mood became more sombre when they entered the bailey, unchallenged by the gatekeeper. The most incongruous thing was that everything seemed so very ordinary and normal. Leofwine the Steward emerged from the stable, as unsmiling as ever, but more melancholy than challenging.
‘I have had the lad saddle the lord’s horse. He will at least ride to Worcester on his own beast, even if his wrists are bound.’
Bradecote raised no objection. After all, dragging a prisoner behind them all the way on foot would simply make the journey twice as long.
‘All seems quiet here, Master Steward.’
‘What sense would there be in aught else? The manor is the manor, whether there is a lord in residence or not. The fields still need tending, the meals still need to be prepared. No, we continue as if …’ Leofwine could not quite bring himself to say ‘as if nothing had happened’.
There was nothing the undersheriff could say that would improve matters, so he nodded, dismounted and went to see Walkelin.
‘Any trouble?’
‘Not a murmur, my lord.’
For a moment Bradecote wondered if de Nouailles had managed to find some way to end his own life, but when the door was unbolted and the shaft of light penetrated within, he was there, sat against the wall, a little dishevelled, but breathing still. Yet it was as if he were but the ghost of Brian de Nouailles. He appeared shrunken, his cheeks were hollow as if he had fasted for a week, and there was nothing of the anger, the pride, or the malevolence that had been part of him only yesterday. When Father Paulinus stepped forward to offer him confession, the sheriff’s men thought he would cast the offer back with foul words, but he nodded, and the priest, waving away the offer of a presence in case he might be assaulted, entered the gloom and pulled the door closed behind him. What passed between them was for none to know, but the priest emerged some time later, his face a blend of regret and wonder.
‘Of a certainty the good can do good from beyond this life,’ he murmured, and sighed. ‘Take your prisoner, my lord. You will have no trouble from him.’ With which he made them a benediction, and walked unhurriedly to the gate, but as he reached it, he had to step aside as a man entered on horseback, a man leading a large-boned bay horse with a big Roman nose and a white off-hind.
Walkelin simply pointed, his jaw dropped.
‘Aye, lad, we can see it too.’ Catchpoll mumbled.
‘The lord Undersheriff?’ The rider, who spoke with a distinct lilt to his voice, looked at Bradecote, being the best garbed and with the finest sword.
‘Yes, I am he.’
‘My name is Rhodri the Welshman, and I live a little short of Bevington. This horse I found grazing just beyond my tilth for vegetables, yesterday afternoon. I feared some soul had met with accident or wickedness, and went to my lord. He said as the sheriff’s men were in Harvington as he had heard, and I should bring it to you, lest, look you, it be thought I stole it.’
‘Your honesty is commendable, my friend. The man who rode it did indeed meet with wickedness, but we can return it to its rightful owner for whom it will be some consolation.’
‘And I did not steal it.’
‘No, we are assured of that for we know already who did.’
Rhodri looked most relieved, and handed the reins to Walkelin, who still gazed at the horse as if it were an apparition. Catchpoll went to bind de Nouailles and lead him out to his horse. The man blinked in the daylight, and the more so at the sight of Horsweard’s bay, but he said not a word, even as Leofwine, in a last act of service, made his hands into a step so that he could mount. Once in the saddle he looked down at the man who had served him so well, and whose one act of disobedience had cost him so much, but there was no emotion on his face. As he rode out of his manor, knowing he would not see it again, he did not look back. Leofwine the Steward crossed himself.
‘He’s dead already,’ he murmured.
They took the Evesham road, and as they neared the gate Bradecote glanced at his prisoner. He had wanted so much to see him defeated, broken, and yet now it was done it gave him no pleasure at all. At heart he knew this was because what had broken him was not the evidence of the law, but the crumbling of sel
f-deception that had prevented him blaming himself for his wife’s death. A beautiful and godly woman had torn him apart, without ever intending it.
De Nouailles’ horse was led, and that would remain, but Bradecote felt a sudden reluctance to put the man on show. He unclasped his riding cloak and threw it across the withers of the prisoner’s horse, hiding the bound wrists. De Nouailles did not bat an eyelid.
‘Walkelin, I want you to take Will Horsweard his property, and tell him justice for his brother has been done. And leave my compliments with the abbot and tell him … that all is concluded.’
‘I will, my lord.’
‘We will cross the river at the Hampton ferry and should meet not far beyond that, for I doubt Horsweard will want a long tale.’
‘Very good, my lord.’
Walkelin trotted ahead and turned to the abbey gates as captors and captive made their way through the town without drawing attention to themselves. Brother Porter opened the gate with alacrity and a smile of recognition. The message for Abbot Reginald was discharged swiftly, for Walkelin was admitted straight away into his presence. The Benedictine was relieved to know that no harm had come to Father Paulinus, and said that all, including Brian de Nouailles, would be in his personal prayers. Thereafter Walkelin headed to the messuage of Will Horsweard, with its stable to its side. As he dismounted, he heard the cry of surprise.
‘By the saints, you have it after all!’ Will Horsweard limped from within the stable, and looked at the horse with as great amazement as Walkelin had earlier.
‘We have, Master Horsweard. And I am to tell you from the lord Undersheriff, that your brother has justice. The man who killed him is himself dead, and he who set that man to kill is to be tried for not only that but murders of his own. The murderer was the lord of Harvington’s man, and the lord will not see his manor again.’
‘But why? What could … Did he make away with my sister?’
‘No,’ Walkelin was not going to try and explain how he was responsible for her death but not guilty of it, or was that the other way about, and the image of the broken man from the cell made him add, ‘whatever ill he did, and it was much, the lord of Harvington loved your sister more than anything on earth.’
Horsweard seemed contented with that, and asked no difficult questions. He had come to terms with his losses, and they were consigned to his prayers, not crowding his thoughts. He was delighted to get back both horse and saddlery, and only as he patted the big velvety nose when he tied the horse in its stall did he know, beyond all doubt, that he would sell the beast, at a good price, of course, as soon as he might. There was something in the limpid eyes that was a little reproachful, and he would always think of his brother when he saw it.
Walkelin trotted out of Evesham, and saw his companions disembarking from the ferry upon the further shore. Catchpoll, turning to speak to the ferryman, saw him waving, and so the shrieval party waited until he had made the crossing, and then trotted briskly towards the bridge at Pershore, with the loop of the Avon to their north, and the brooding presence of Bredon Hill to their south.
It was mid afternoon when they finally entered Worcester Castle. Catchpoll and Walkelin took their silent prisoner to the cells, and Hugh Bradecote went, with an injunction for the others to follow when all was done, to make his report to William de Beauchamp.
The lord Sheriff of Worcester did not like to find his own class shown up as criminal. He thought it made a bad impression. In de Nouailles’ case he was prepared to make an exception, and rubbed his hands together.
‘Well, well. He was ever a hard bastard, and I for one won’t be sad to see the back of him. What did you think of him?’
‘Much as you, except …’ Bradecote paused, ‘I was looking forward to seeing him hang, but now … If you go to the cells, my lord, you would scarce recognise the man from the one who thought himself above the law, cleverer than the law, but yesterday. He is pitiful.’
‘Sounds as if you are going soft, to me.’
Bradecote shook his head.
‘He was cleverer than the law for a while, and, by heaven, he rubbed that in and I came close to drawing steel upon him out of pure rage, but now … As I said, see for yourself, my lord, and you will believe me.’
‘But the law caught up with him in the end, and broke him.’
‘No, my lord. I could say that, but it would be a lie. What caught up with him, aye, and broke him too, was a ghost.’
William de Beauchamp raised a sceptical eyebrow, and made a derogatory noise in his throat. He expected Catchpoll to be more pragmatic, and said as much when he and his serjeant watched Hugh Bradecote mount up ready to leave.
‘You and I do not believe in ghosts, Catchpoll.’
‘No, my lord, but I know that if one believes in something hard enough it can be real. The lord of Harvington could not let go of his wife, even buried, and so she kept a reality. You might say that is a sort of ghost, my lord, and my lord Bradecote was right. It was the thought of her, the sight of her in his mind, as took him in the end.’
Bradecote gave a nod, which was both to his lord, and to Catchpoll. He looked thoughtful, but no longer miserable, for he was going home to his Christina and his son, and he knew he would receive a joyous greeting. As the castle gate was opened for him, a slow smile spread across his face. The lady de Nouailles had been described as like an angel, and saintly. His Christina was a good woman, but he doubted she was angel or saint, since he had never heard of either being as seductive as she was when the solar door kept all others out. A bed kept warm, she had promised. She was a woman who kept her promises.
The grey horse trotted under the arch of the gateway and headed for home.
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About the Author
SARAH HAWKSWOOD describes herself as a ‘wordsmith’ who is only really happy when writing. She read Modern History at Oxford and first published a non-fiction book on the Royal Marines in the First World War before moving on to mediaeval mysteries set in Worcestershire.
bradecoteandcatchpoll.com
By Sarah Hawkswood
Servant of Death
Ordeal by Fire
Marked to Die
Hostage to Fortune
Vale of Tears
Faithful unto Death
Copyright
Allison & Busby Limited
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London W1F 8AN
allisonandbusby.com
First published in Great Britain by Allison & Busby in 2019.
This ebook edition published in Great Britain by Allison & Busby in 2019.
Copyright © 2019 by SARAH HAWKSWOOD
The moral right of the author is hereby asserted in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988.
All characters and events in this publication, other than those clearly in the public domain, are fictitious and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form or by any means without the prior written permission of the publisher, nor be otherwise circulated in any form of binding or cover other than that in which it is published and without a similar condition being imposed on the subsequent buyer.
A CIP catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library.
ISBN 978–0–7490–2409–3
Sarah Hawkswood, Vale of Tears
Vale of Tears Page 23