Faithful Unto Death

by Sarah Hawkswood

  ‘I am Rhys ap Iorwerth. My mother was from Chirbury. I will say your words true to my prince.’

  ‘Thank you, Rhys ap Iorwerth. Tell him that a messenger he sent to Earl Robert of Gloucester did not arrive as expected, and that the body of a man, and a man used to bearing arms, and well fed, was found near the road from Bromyard to Worcester. We wonder if it is the same man.’

  Madog had pricked up his ears at the name of his ‘ally’ Robert of Gloucester. Catchpoll watched him carefully as Rhys translated. His face registered surprise and thoughtfulness, and Catchpoll would have sworn the news was indeed news to him. A question was asked in return, which came swiftly to the sheriff’s men.

  ‘He had a big nose, you say. What else would you say of him?’

  ‘Of his height,’ Bradecote pointed out a man, ‘and beardless. His hair was like unto his.’ His finger moved to another. ‘He had a scar upon his right leg, calf to shin.’ He waited for the words to be given in Welsh. From somewhere in the hall came a woman’s muted cry, and many crossed themselves. That needed no translation.

  ‘My prince says that the man you found indeed sounds like Hywel ap Rhodri, whom he sent to Earl Robert. He wishes to know how and why his man was murdered, for murder was the word your man used.’

  ‘His body was found naked, some days dead, and stabbed in the back. We would ask if he had others with him, a companion, a man-at-arms or servant?’ Bradecote decided saying that they had no idea as to motive was not helpful.

  ‘He left with Rhydian, his servant. I saw that myself.’

  ‘There has been no sign of this Rhydian.’ Bradecote did not state the obvious conclusion to be drawn.

  The lady seated beside Madog spoke to him, ignoring the sheriff’s men.

  ‘May I ask what the noble Lady said?’ Bradecote judged her to be Madog’s wife. She was not young, but still possessed a certain cold beauty.

  ‘She said that Rhydian was a faithful servant, faithful even unto death.’

  ‘Yet we have no second body. Hywel ap Rhodri’s body was moved, but it makes no sense to move one corpse but not the other.’ Bradecote spoke half to himself. ‘If Rhydian should return, perhaps wounded, would the lord Prince send to Worcester with that news?’

  Rhys asked, and Madog nodded, and spoke at length.

  ‘My prince says that Hywel ap Rhodri was a true and loyal man, a man of courage, and he would have justice for him. He says that if some Englishman killed him because he was Welsh, it is an insult to Powys and to him as his overlord.’

  ‘Tell the noble Prince that we will do everything we can to find out who killed his man, and why. Having a name to him is a start. You may tell him he was buried decently and that the monks of Worcester, who hold the manor in which he was found, offer prayers for his soul.’ Bradecote paused, and then continued. ‘I swear that we will make every effort to find his killer, from whichever side of the border they may come.’ Rhys scowled, but Bradecote drove home his point. ‘If there is anything here that has a bearing, then for the sake of justice, the prince’s as much as my king’s, we must know of it. Chasing about Worcestershire for a killer is of no use if Hywel ap Rhodri had enemies, or rather, one enemy, here. More murders are committed by someone the victim knew than otherwise, and that applies in all realms.’

  Rhys did not look mollified, but repeated the words for Madog’s benefit. The Prince of Powys nodded again, and his wife cast Bradecote a look of loathing, which Catchpoll thought interesting.

  ‘Upon which day did Hywel ap Rhodri leave?’

  ‘I can tell you that, my lord Undersheriff. He left on the Feast of St Alban,’ Rhys answered swiftly.

  ‘And I would ask the lord Prince, not of what he wished to send to Earl Robert, but how the Earl Robert knew to expect a messenger, and thus knew him to be late?’

  This Rhys translated, and Madog ap Mareddud’s face became stormy. He was silent for a minute, and then, very slowly, spoke.

  ‘My prince says you pry, but he says this also, that he arranged some time since that he would send a messenger upon the Feast of St Alban, with a decision to the Earl Robert upon a matter which is no concern of yours.’

  Which puts me in my place, thought Bradecote.

  ‘I am not concerned with the politics of the mighty, only justice for the murdered.’ He made sure his voice was calm, reasonable. It did not aid them, alienating royalty, not when they stood in their hall.

  Madog looked hard at the undersheriff as he heard the interpreter, and gave a slow nod, perhaps of acceptance. He then informed them that they would be accorded all due hospitality, at which he also looked about his court, making it clear they were under his protection, and followed it with a vague speech about kingship and responsibility, which Bradecote also took to be for local consumption. The audience was then at an end, and Bradecote, Catchpoll and Walkelin withdrew. They were shown to a small, and rather gloomy, chamber off the inner court. A man-at-arms waited outside.

  ‘Do you get the idea we are meant to think we are “honoured prisoners”?’ murmured Bradecote.

  ‘It is so we will not contaminate their pure Welshness,’ scoffed Catchpoll. He turned to Walkelin and cuffed him about the ear. ‘And that is for speaking without leave and very nearly getting us killed through simple stupidity.’

  ‘Ow!’ Walkelin rubbed the injured ear and looked to Bradecote. ‘I am sorry, my lord. I meant no disrespect, but it was so … it felt like the air was being sucked away. I thought I could help, but then I realised I was actually talking to a prince and I forgot most of the words I had.’

  ‘Help and hindrance start with the same letter,’ grumbled Catchpoll. ‘If he had not decided you were as entertaining as a fool with a sheep’s bladder on a stick, they would be throwing our remains to the wolves that undoubtedly inhabit the forests hereabout.’

  ‘Enough.’ Bradecote raised a hand. ‘We survived, and now we have to sort out how far what has been handed to us aids our hunt.’

  ‘If this Hywel ap Rhodri was the flower of nobility the Prince of Powys describes, then he must have been killed for what he had about him, or what someone thought he might have,’ asserted Walkelin, glad to get away from his own failings.

  ‘Or that was praising him too high, to cover “politics”.’ Catchpoll sucked his teeth. ‘Mind you, I would swear the news of the death came as a surprise to his overlord.’

  ‘And Madog would not arrange to send a messenger to Earl Robert and then have him killed on the way. If you are a prince who has suddenly cause to distrust a vassal, but have no proof, simply send him on some minor military duty and arrange he is found by an arrow.’ Bradecote shook his head.

  ‘Then what about a rival, who wants to be more in favour with the prince and saw him as in the way?’ Walkelin was dogged. ‘You could not see every face among the court, Serjeant Catchpoll.’

  ‘No, I could not, and from the sounds of it, there was a woman who took the news badly.’

  ‘I did not think to ask if he was wed,’ murmured Bradecote to himself.

  ‘If he was, then it was his prince’s choice not to tell us, and his duty to see her treated properly.’ Catchpoll was thinking of something else.

  ‘Ah, but might it then be that it was she who had him killed, paying the servant to do the deed?’ Walkelin brightened.

  ‘The one problem I have with all these ideas is why wait until he was in Worcestershire, not just over the Shropshire border?’ Catchpoll’s eyes narrowed. ‘It makes no sense, no sense at all.’

  ‘Then the killing was not ordered from Powys?’ Bradecote accepted Catchpoll’s reasoning.

  ‘It would seem less likely, unless very devious, my lord.’

  ‘If that is so, he was not killed for his message, since none would know he carried it, outside of Mathrafal, and not because of who he was, since he would be just a passing stranger. That means we are indeed back to Walkelin’s idea of him being murdered for horse, sword and scrip.’

  ‘And do not ask me wh
y that sits ill also, my lord, because I cannot say why, but it does.’

  ‘Which leaves us with no reason at all, and if it were a madman, such a fellow would leave the body where it fell.’

  ‘Ah, but his neighbours would have moved the body because of the fine, and if they feared he was dangerous, well, there is always an accident with a scythe whilst cutting the hay …’ Catchpoll was in gloomy mood. Bradecote wondered if he would brighten when they crossed back into England.

  ‘Thus, we have a name to please priest and monks, but new people, important people, wanting answers we cannot provide.’ Bradecote raised his eyes to heaven and prayed.

  Having kicked their heels in the bare chamber for some minutes, they heard an interchange in muttered Welsh, and the man-at-arms peered round the door and beckoned them to follow him once more. They were led to a larger room where they found their bedrolls rolled out, Bradecote’s upon the narrow cot against the wall of the chamber.

  ‘Ah, the reason for our waiting. What odds they went through all we have?’ Catchpoll asked, miserably.

  ‘Of course they did. They trust us as little as we trust them, I doubt not.’ Bradecote was sanguine about it. ‘But we have nothing to hide, and it is possible that someone here does. Having learnt to be as suspicious a bastard as you are, Catchpoll, I suggest we check our possessions for ourselves, lest anything has been “added” to incriminate us if we sniff too close to a truth.’

  This appeared to cheer Catchpoll, in a perverse way. He set to inspecting his meagre baggage with zest, although whether he was pleased because his superior had developed such a level of cynical suspicion, or because it all proved how devious, dastardly and downright untrustworthy were their hosts, Bradecote could not say.

  Just as these precautions were completed there came the sound of footsteps on the stone flags outside, and a knock upon the oaken door, although the door opened before Bradecote could invite anyone in. A burly man-at-arms pointed at the undersheriff and said something that may or may not have been a request. Bradecote looked blankly at him. The speech was repeated, with the addition of a beckoning finger, and a raised hand that indicated the other two were not to join him.

  ‘You will not go alone, my lord?’ Walkelin’s voice belied his nervousness.

  ‘I am under Madog ap Maredudd’s protection,’ declared Bradecote calmly, but using the name that the burly man would understand as a shield, and shrugged. He nodded to the burly man and followed him from the chamber.

  ‘What do we do now, Serjeant?’ asked Walkelin.

  ‘We wait.’

  Hugh Bradecote followed the broad back of his guide to a spiral stair, which the man almost blocked with his bulk, and up to a chamber, where the man halted, and then realised that not to enter would mean Bradecote squeezing past him in a manner that would please neither of them. With every indication of not wanting to open the door, he nevertheless lifted the latch and opened it wide enough for him to step within, have the ‘Englishman’ pass him, and withdraw swiftly, so that he might perhaps be forgotten.

  The chamber was furnished for a lady. There were hangings upon two walls, a heavy chest, a curtained-off box bed, and a carved chair set by a brazier, which heated the cold chamber, whose stone held no warmth from the summer outside. In the chair sat the lady from Madog’s side, her expression imperious. Bradecote could understand her pride, for it came with royal blood, but not the revulsion that mingled with it. A little apart, and with eyes downcast, stood Rhys the Interpreter. The lady spoke, her eyes upon her visitor, and when the translation was made, Bradecote felt that however correct the words, they lacked the antagonism of the originals.

  ‘My lady asks, what is your true reason for coming to Powys?’ Rhys looked uncomfortable.

  ‘The reason is the one I gave before all. We seek the name of a murdered man, and from that knowledge, if possible, to catch his killer.’ Bradecote copied the lady, and looked at her, not Rhys ap Iorwerth.

  ‘If you think him a man of Wales, why did you bother?’ The lady’s sarcasm needed no translation.

  ‘Because our King’s justice applies to all within his kingdom,’ replied Bradecote, diplomatically, ‘and because also Earl Robert of Gloucester wishes to know what happened to the messenger he was expecting. Earl Robert is …’ He paused for a moment, as Rhys ap Iorwerth caught up in translation, and, as he finished, the lady interjected.

  ‘He is a king’s son, a son acknowledged.’

  Bradecote remembered then. Bastardy was different in Wales. If a man was content to call his by-blow ‘son’, and have him accepted, he might inherit, or share inheritance.

  ‘Indeed. So we are here in good faith, noble Lady, and with no underhand motive.’ He kept his voice calm. ‘Is there any aid you might give us?’ It was impertinent to ask, but in private it might be easier to hear facts than in a hall full of power and aspiration, doubt and double meaning. She stared at him. ‘Forgive me, lady, but when the noble Prince spoke of Hywel ap Rhodri with such praise, you did not look as though you agreed.’

  She looked irritated when the words were given to her in Welsh, but answered.

  ‘My lord judges a man as a man. The virtues of courage and loyalty to his lord I would grant to Hywel ap Rhodri, but he has, or had, a fault.’

  ‘Which is?’

  She spoke, calmly, but her words evidently shocked the interpreter.

  ‘He … my lady?’ Rhys ap Iowerth gasped and stared at her. She nodded, her lips compressed, and he continued his translation as though the words were wrung from him. ‘He cannot keep his hands off women. He uses honeyed words to seduce, but if honeyed words do not succeed … he does not understand “No”.’

  ‘You have …’ Bradecote faltered. He could scarce ask a royal dame if she had been molested.

  The lady Susanna’s voice dropped to as near a growl as a woman’s voice could go, and that passion echoed into the translation, ‘If you were thinking to ask if he had dared to even look upon me, I can assure you he valued his skin too much for that impertinence, and if he had … Then it would have been me, personally, who would have flayed every inch of it from his back. No, he laid hand upon one of my ladies. The Holy Virgin be praised he was disturbed before he could do more than upset and frighten her.’ She looked directly at Rhys the Interpreter, and spoke rapidly, a command, not something to translate. It was no more than a few phrases, and Bradecote did not need to understand the words to get her meaning. The man paled and gabbled some assurance. No doubt he had been warned that spreading any word of what was said would see his tongue cut out. Then she returned her gaze to his own face. ‘If Hywel ap Rhodri has met a violent death, look you to someone whose woman he has dishonoured.’

  ‘In this court?’

  ‘Not to my knowledge, but one does not hear all things. If it were so, why wait until he was so far into England?’ She said the word as if England were situated at the gates of hell, on the wrong side, and Rhys ap Iorwerth also gave it weight. ‘Mayhap it is just common English thievery and killing.’ Her lip curled.

  ‘Thievery and killing are common to all lands, and all peoples.’ Bradecote felt unnaturally piqued at her animosity to his land. ‘When we were at Bromfield, they spoke of a Welshman who was undoubtedly this Hywel ap Rhodri, and a woman went missing the day he was there. She was found the day we arrived, dead the day she went missing from the state of the body, strangled and … dishonoured, probably after death.’

  Rhys did not at first translate. He stared at Bradecote, and spoke softly. ‘I cannot tell her that.’

  ‘Tell her.’ Bradecote was firm, and, hesitantly, Rhys ap Iorwerth did so.

  ‘You say this to shock me?’ She looked at Bradecote.

  ‘I say only what I believe is true.’

  ‘To blame a Welshman.’

  ‘Welsh or English, men are the same beneath. There are bad Welshmen, lady, and good Englishmen.’

  ‘Do you know so little, Undersheriff? You speak to Susanna ferch Gruffydd.’ Rhys
spoke without prompting.

  Bradecote looked blankly at him, and the lady demanded that Rhys keep nothing concealed. When he repeated both his words and Bradecote’s she rose from the fur-draped seat upon which she had been sitting very erect, and said but one word, hissed at Bradecote.

  ‘Cydweli.’

  He frowned, and then slowly coloured. Kidwelly. It had not been what he would have done, but Gwenllian ferch Gruffydd, wife of the Prince of Deheubarth, had led a small army, and after a bloody battle hard men do hard things. The ‘English’ lords had beheaded her on the field of her defeat, beheaded a woman. It sat badly with him, but … From the names he assumed they must have been sisters.

  ‘I am sorry.’ He wished the words unsaid, even as Rhys spoke them in Welsh. This woman did not want his sympathy, would no doubt find it insulting and pointless, and he could not deny the latter. A muscle quivered in her cheek, and her eyes burned. He tried to return to the situation of the present. ‘I did not ask before the lord Prince, but was Hywel ap Rhodri, however he strayed, a married man?’

  ‘Yes.’ The answer came from Rhys, without him translating to the lady Susanna, who spoke sharply to him again, clearly wanting every word passed to her. Bradecote looked at the man. One fist was clenched, and his expression was one of repressed emotion, though which emotions it was hard to tell.

  ‘Was she the lady who cried out at our news?’

  This time the words were translated before Rhys replied in the affirmative.

  ‘May I speak with her?’

  ‘No!’ This time the answer was a cry from the heart. The lady Susanna looked as surprised as Bradecote. She spoke to Rhys, firmly, but without heat, and he answered her. Bradecote wished he could read faces as well as Catchpoll. His guess was that she was either the interpreter’s kinswoman, or he thought softly of her. The lady spoke again, and this time Rhys ap Iorwerth translated.

  ‘She is distraught, and she knows nothing beyond the fact that she has lost a husband.’