They reached the priory at Bromfield as the brothers finished None and the guest-master met them, courteous but seeming preoccupied. Bradecote asked after any Welshman who might have passed through about a week gone.
‘We often have those with the Welsh lilt here, but there was a man, of some rank and means, here a week ago.’
‘Can you describe this man, and was he alone?’
‘He was well dressed, about thirty years, light-brown hair, quite a definite nose to him, and he had a servant, small weasel of a man.’
‘Can you fix upon the day he came, Brother?’
‘Oh yes, my lord, for he arrived late on the Feast of St Alban, and stayed the day after also, for his horse needed shoeing, and was spent. He said he had seen the forge at the roadside, but the blacksmith told him he would not shoe a horse so blown for fear it would fall down upon him and he be blamed if it was dead. And the man said that he would not reach his destination for the night after the work was completed so would rest the day here. Brother Porter can confirm all this. I will call him.’
Catchpoll frowned, but said nothing, as a novice was sent to the gate. Brother Porter was the antithesis of his counterpart at Leominster, being a beanpole of a man, with a stoop, and a long, rather disconsolate-looking face. His eyes had a dullness, and his voice was a heavy monotone of miserable disapproval.
‘Yes, the proud Welshman rode in late of an evening a week past, his horse weary, and with a shoe near casting, so he said. His servant’s mount was in a worse condition, and it was no wonder that they remained a second night. I thought the beast might collapse before it reached the stable.’
‘Then it would help us to speak with the smith,’ remarked Bradecote.
‘You will get nothing from him today, my lord.’ The guest-master looked grim, and Bradecote was aware of a feeling of foreboding.
‘He brought in the body of his wife to the church but two hours since and is gone to help dig her grave.’
‘She is to be buried so soon?’ Bradecote could feel Catchpoll as tense as he was himself.
‘Father Prior dare not wait, for the corpse is … she went missing, you see.’
‘When?’ Catchpoll was terse.
‘The day after St Alban’s. She was going to visit her ailing mother but a mile away, and never returned, nor reached it either, as was found. Gyrth has been searching for her all the hours of daylight, and more, since. He found her, half-covered in branches.’
Undersheriff and serjeant exchanged glances.
‘You have sent to Shrewsbury?’
‘Indeed, but I heard from a traveller but yesterday there was some trouble in the north of the shire, near Ellesmere, so …’
‘May we see the body? It is not in our jurisdiction, but at least something may be gained that can be writ down for any who come after to seek truth for her.’ Bradecote added his own question.
‘I will ask Father Prior, my lord, and you will need strong stomachs or weak noses.’
The brother went in search of the Prior Osbert, and returned a few minutes later, accompanied by a small, bird-like cleric and a grey-faced man in his forties; a strong, muscular man but one at the end of his physical and mental strength. His shoulders sagged, his arms hung loosely at his sides and his head looked too heavy to lift. Bradecote wondered how he had the energy to help dig a grave.
‘This is Gyrth the Blacksmith, my lord, and Father Prior, who has given his permission as long as Gyrth agrees.’
The prior inclined his head, but the man barely acknowledged them. His eyes were blank.
‘We would see the body, that it might help discover what happened, and who was involved.’ Bradecote spoke gently to the man, who simply nodded.
The prior and the grieving widower led the way to the church, which had become part of the priory, but of which the western end was still for the use of the parish. They passed into the south transept, for there was a chapel where a body might be kept discreetly. Neither man passed beyond the blankets that had been erected as a swift screen to hide what lay within, although no blanket could contain the smell. The air was heavy with incense and all the sweet herbs they could muster, but death, old death, overpowered everything else. Bradecote had become used to the smell of death in the year since he had assumed the position of undersheriff, but even he felt his gorge threaten to rise. Walkelin choked and turned away. Only Catchpoll remained apparently unaffected. He approached the covered corpse and drew back the sheet. The smell hit them afresh. Bradecote crossed himself, and swallowed hard, trying not to breathe through his nose, but finding the smell caught in his throat anyway.
The body was in a poor state, and blackening. What surprised Bradecote was the age of the woman. He thought, though he could not be certain, she was perhaps no more than late twenties, and he had somehow imagined her older. The priests spoke of ‘the corruption of the body’ but it was unpleasant to stand within feet of it. Catchpoll moved closer than Bradecote could dare, and spoke softly.
‘Poor wench. What happened to you, then?’
He touched the neck. The discolouration would have long ago concealed any marks made before death, but he grunted.
‘She was strangled, choked hard, I would say. The voice box is crushed, and had she been found earlier I would swear there would be black bruises before this black.’
‘I do not understand the gown,’ murmured Bradecote. ‘The bodice and shift are ripped, but the skirts have been cut clean top to bottom with a knife.’
The body had not been stripped, for none wished to deal more than needful with it, and the skirts were gathered over the lower part of the body like a shroud, but one side folded over the other.
‘We must ask the smith how she lay when she was found, but my guess is the bodice was ripped while she lived, and struggled, but the skirts …’ He looked grimly at Bradecote, whose slightly green tinge paled. There was silence as they both considered the meaning.
‘Sweet Jesu, a man would do … that?’
‘There are some as would. If he were fired enough by her, by her fear even, and she just beyond breathing …’ His hand went to the folds of the gown, and Bradecote looked away. He had seen bodies naked, but this was too much.
‘Too far gone to tell,’ grunted Catchpoll, and Bradecote was conscious of relief.
‘Do we need more?’
‘No, my lord, she can tell us nothing else, may God have mercy upon her.’ The clothing was made decent again, and Catchpoll stepped back from the body. They turned and went out through the archway, where Walkelin waited, shamefaced, and the prior stood in whispered conversation with the bereft husband.
‘Master Smith,’ Bradecote showed the man courtesy, ‘we must ask where you found the body, and how it lay.’
‘I wonder I did not find her three days past, for I searched the coppice that runs beside the trackway north to Onibury.’ His voice sounded distant. ‘There was branches over her, see, and … It was the air as told me.’ He swallowed hard. ‘She was on her back. You don’t need to tell me what happened … I can guess easy enough. If I finds him, I’ll slit his codd and roast—’
‘We think your wife tried to defend herself, and any … dishonour, was after she could know aught of it, if comfort that can be.’
‘She was a good woman. Men said as I was fortunate to have so comely a wife, but look what it led to. I wish she had been ugly, before God I do.’ The blacksmith buried his head in his large hands and wept.
Bradecote asked the prior to send a monk who could scribe for them, that a message might be left for those with jurisdiction who came later. Prior Osbert nodded, sending Gyrth back to his grave digging, and walking slowly into the sunshine that seemed too cheerful for what they had just seen. He beckoned a brother, who went hurriedly away.
‘This is very bad for our community, for the parish community also. Such evil as men do.’ He sighed.
Bradecote looked at Catchpoll, who nodded.
‘Father Prior, we are on our way
to the Prince of Powys, concerning a messenger who did not arrive in Gloucester, and a body found by the road between Leominster and Worcester. The Welshman who was here on the Feast of St Alban is likely to be that body.’ The prior crossed himself. ‘However, we know that the man also had dealings with the smith about his horse, so there is a connection, and the woman,’ he paused, ‘I am sorry, we never heard her name …’
‘Leofeva.’
‘Leofeva went missing the day after the feast day, when the Welshman had his horse shoed. We cannot discount the possibility, if not probability, that the man who committed the crimes against her is now also dead.’
‘We should pray for him also, but, do you know, today that is very hard,’ sighed the monk.
‘I will leave what Serjeant Catchpoll found from the body, and our thoughts, though they cannot be proved, for any who come to see about justice for the smith’s wife. Beyond that, Father Prior, we would ask only your hospitality for the night, and will be upon our journey to Mathrafal early in the morning. If the man rode here in one day, and I doubt he set off at dawn, we can do so without crippling our mounts, and there is always Bishop’s Castle if we need to break the journey for one more night.’
‘I will have Brother Cellarer have bread and cheese provided for you, however early you depart, my lord.’
‘Thank you. Here is the scribe, I take it?’ Bradecote watched a youthful brother bustling towards them with inkpot, quill and vellum.
‘Brother Laurence, yes. He has the best hand in our small community. Brother, come to my lodging and set down all that the lord Undersheriff dictates, and if you wish to see me afterwards, I am willing to speak with you.’ Prior Osbert looked at Bradecote, and that look said that he thought the monk might find his duty harrowing.
So it proved to be, and several times the young Benedictine paused, his hand shaking. Bradecote spoke quietly, and firmly. He had to be accurate as best he was able, however upset it might make the innocent monk. When he had finished, he thanked him, and sent him, as a command, to his prior.
Outside, Walkelin, now a much better colour, was still apologising to his serjeant.
‘I should be hardier of stomach, Serjeant. How can I …?’
Catchpoll looked over Walkelin’s shoulder, and gave Bradecote a small, grim smile.
‘You had best tell him, my lord, as stomachs do not obey heads, not all the time.’
‘No, they do not, Serjeant. Walkelin, it was all I could do not to be sick at the stench, and if Serjeant Catchpoll was the stronger, put it down to his nose being older and dulled by the odours of many years.’
‘Thank you, my lord.’ Catchpoll’s lips twitched. ‘I was going to say it was experience, but there.’
They departed a little after dawn, about the fifth hour, when the day was cool, and made good time, stopping only to let their horses drink at a stream, where they ate the bread and cheese from the priory, and then at Bishop’s Castle, mid morning, where they checked whether any had seen a Welshman of lordly mien with a servant ‘like a weasel’, and were not at all surprised to hear a negative answer. They were offered ale, and a rest for their horses, and took only the former, wanting to travel as far as possible before noon.
They halted about midday where there was a clearing with dappled light and good grass, unsaddled the horses, and let them graze for over an hour, with Walkelin set to hold the reins, on the grounds that they did not want something sending their animals off and leaving them in the middle of nowhere. As Catchpoll explained also, holding reins was not a lordly task, and sergeants were too long in the tooth to do so. Instead, he lay with his head against his saddle and snored gently. Hugh Bradecote did not sleep, but wondered if the hay was being cut at Bradecote, and how his Christina and baby Gilbert were faring in the heat. The reverie was pleasant, but had to be limited. He kicked the saddle under Catchpoll’s head, which woke him with a start and expletives, for above the canopy of trees a dark grey cloud presaged a heavy shower. They mounted, and set off, shortly afterwards hunching against a vicious patter of droplets.
‘Must be in Wales now,’ grumbled Catchpoll. ‘Wet, miserable, and that is just the men.’
Bradecote shook his head. Catchpoll was just about the most sensible and pragmatic man he knew, but his loathing of the Welsh was both irrational and unshakeable.
‘So how do we tell the Prince of Powys his man was quite possibly a rapist and murderer, without him cutting our bollocks off for … treason?’ Walkelin sounded nervous.
‘I thought you liked the Welsh,’ murmured Catchpoll.
‘I like Eluned, who is Welsh, which is not the same thing.’ Walkelin now sounded aggrieved.
‘Well, let me see, how about we do not tell him that at all? How about we act as if we know nothing and see what they reveal to us?’ Catchpoll sneered.
‘But—’
‘Serjeant Catchpoll is right. We see what they tell us, because they may have pieces of this tale we do not, and may also have pieces that we do, but they choose to conceal, which also tells us things.’ Bradecote urged his horse to a trot.
‘Now that,’ remarked Catchpoll, with a sudden death’s head grin, ‘is the way a sheriff’s man ought to think. Mark you that, young Cabbage for Brains.’
Mathrafal, seat of the Prince of Powys, lay on the left bank of the Banwy, but by the time the sheriff’s men reached it they were beyond caring about its location or defensibility. They were wet, very wet, for although the rain had ceased a good three miles beforehand, they were skin-soaked and cold, and the sun refused to come from behind a Welsh cloud and warm them. They arrived, Bradecote realised, looking like drowned rats, and hardly impressive. They were met at the outer gate by a guard that looked as if it knew its business, and were suitably wary, especially when the visitors spoke in languages they did not understand. Bradecote tried English, Norman-French and Latin, with little hope. He resorted to pointing at himself, giving his name and saying very clearly ‘Sheriff of Worcestershire’. He would rather be mistaken for William de Beauchamp than kept out as a nobody.
After a few minutes, and several huddled conversations, the guard indicated they should dismount, and advance. At that point another man appeared, to whom the guards spoke as one, and he, without saying a word, beckoned them into the outer bailey, where lads came to take their horses. Lacking a means of escape gave them a feeling of vulnerability, but there was no alternative. Bradecote looked at Catchpoll and shrugged.
Chapter Three
Having been passed up the chain of command until somebody felt senior enough to make a decision about them, the trio were led through an inner bailey to a large hall, which was clearly where Madog ap Maredudd held court. How they were announced, Hugh Bradecote could not say, but the murmur of voices ceased, and all eyes fell upon them, some blatantly hostile. He stepped forward, with Catchpoll and Walkelin a little to his rear, and presented himself to the man upon a heavily carved seat that stood on a dais. Bradecote made a low obeisance. Treat him as if he were King Stephen and he cannot be offended, he told himself.
‘Noble Prince, I am Hugh Bradecote, Undersheriff of Worcestershire, and I come at the behest of William de Beauchamp to discover if a man found dead in our shire is your man, or not.’ He spoke clearly, and not too slowly, lest it sound patronising. If nothing was understood, then surely they would seek out an interpreter, as de Beauchamp had suggested.
Madog ap Maredudd simply stared at him blankly, and the lady at his side glowered as if he had said something offensive. There was a heavy silence, but Bradecote felt it was some game being played as to who would ‘break’ first. A man coughed, a woman giggled somewhere in the background, and Bradecote caught movement out of the corner of his eye.
Walkelin, ignoring a growling noise from Catchpoll, stepped beside the undersheriff, bowed so low his face nearly met his knees, and then announced in a nervously overloud voice, ‘Trowin mower.’
Madog ap Maredudd frowned in perplexity at the mangled Welsh, but as c
omprehension dawned that changed to displeasure.
‘What in the name of the Rood did you say?’ whispered Bradecote, scarcely moving his lips.
‘Big nose,’ murmured Walkelin, reddening.
Catchpoll gave an anguished sigh. Walkelin realised that his words had been taken as an insult, and thought fast. He mimed a big nose, and then tried another word he had asked Eluned to give him, and which he had been trying under his breath these last few days.
‘Shovrithiyess?’ He fell upon the floor and lay on his back with eyes wide open, and acted a knife being stabbed into his chest.
The prince looked to a heavy-set man at his right hand, who shrugged. Then a voice from among the courtiers was heard.
‘Llofruddiaeth!’
There was a collective intake of breath, followed by an exhalation of understanding. Madog ap Maredudd looked Bradecote in the eye and spoke.
‘I have your tongue, a little. I understand more. I was at Lincoln.’ His words were accented and with a peculiar lilt, but intelligible.
Bradecote cursed himself. It made sense enough. If Madog had fought beside the Earl of Chester and William of Roumare he would have learnt at least a smattering of Norman-French.
‘We end this …’ Madog gestured at Walkelin, now flushed of cheek and dusting down his cotte, and said something which Bradecote took to be a name. A man with wavy hair and a close-cropped beard came forward, bowed low to his prince, and then very slightly to Bradecote.
Faithful Unto Death Page 3