‘Doddenham?’ Rhys repeated, and all three sheriff’s men stared at him.
‘You have heard of it?’ Bradecote asked.
‘I have heard the name, somewhere.’ Rhys ap Iorwerth frowned, and repeated the name to himself. The others waited, in hope. ‘It was to do with Hywel ap Rhodri,’ he shouted, as if he had found a great treasure.
‘And …?’ Catchpoll encouraged.
‘Some relative. My mother being from Chirbury, he mentioned it once. I think perhaps his mother’s sister, or mother’s brother, or a cousin. He had English connections and that was the place.’
‘Then I think we have an answer to a question, at the least.’ Bradecote sounded relieved. ‘We wondered where Hywel ap Rhodri stayed if he went from Bromfield and yet did not stop at Leominster. He could not have reached Worcester, and there was no other likely point, but if he had kin, where better to break the journey, even if it meant a long day from Bromfield.’
‘So do we stop there instead of Leominster?’ wondered Walkelin.
‘And alert any who needs to find themselves proofs that whoever killed the man it was not them? I think we had as well report to the lord Sheriff, and then return. What say you, my lord?’ Catchpoll looked at Bradecote.
‘I agree. There is nothing so fresh we must find it immediately, unless that be the body of Rhydian, but a day will not be such a difference now. We ride with our news to the lord Sheriff, and he can at least send to Earl Robert of Gloucester to confirm the messenger is not coming.’
‘And I can sleep in my own bed,’ said Catchpoll, with a smile.
They reached Bishop’s Castle in the afternoon and were greeted with recognition. Rhys ap Iorwerth dismounted a little stiffly, and Bradecote guessed that he did not often travel far beyond Mathrafal. Catchpoll made much of sending the lord Undersheriff to the constable of the castle, and having Walkelin see to his horse once again, but also indicated Rhys should also remain and care for his own animal. The question of the man’s status was open. He was not, Bradecote would swear, from among Catchpoll and Walkelin’s ‘sort’, but as the interpreter he had been treated more as a servant than advisor, and his demeanour was not assertive. In Catchpoll’s eyes, a man who did not act like a lord, and was Welsh to boot, was not going to get deference. Bradecote was a little surprised that the man seemed to accept this.
The constable was keen to hear of the atmosphere at Mathrafal. Powys was like having a large and irascible dog as a neighbour, and when it snapped, Bishop’s Castle was in easy range of its teeth.
‘We have had it quiet for some time, and the longer it remains so, the more I wonder. The safest thing for us is when the Welsh forget us and fight among themselves. Then we relax.’ Raoul the Constable sighed. ‘Thus it has always been along the Marches, before ever we arrived.’
Hugh Bradecote made vague agreement, but was secretly a little surprised at the man retaining what was clearly a sense of being ‘alien’ to the land. Then he smiled secretly to himself. The truth of the matter was that, after a year as undersheriff, and Catchpoll’s influence, in his mind ‘them’ and ‘us’ had the ‘us’ as the sheriff’s men, and the ‘them’ as everyone else. How delighted this would make the serjeant.
It could not be said that Catchpoll was feeling particularly delighted at that moment, although the beaker of beer in his hand was very welcome. Catchpoll was thinking, and was frustrated at how much was pure conjecture. Knowing as much as possible about the victim was always a great asset in finding out who killed them and why, so the journey to, and into, Wales had not been a waste of time. They had a name, and very useful detail about the man’s character, which provided a very solid motive if anyone had discovered him molesting a woman. That might be seen as a perfectly legitimate killing, but might have been hidden to cover the dishonour to the woman and the shame to the family.
Walkelin found him with a frown of concentration.
‘Serjeant? You have thought of a problem?’
‘Problem? No. I tries not to do that, because the more you looks at problems, the more problems you finds. So I do not deal in problems, I deals in solutions.’
‘So have you thought of any solutions?’ Walkelin enquired.
‘More I am sorting out what solutions are … available, though I think our visit to Doddenham will be what takes us ahead. What we will find out there, I do not know, but that must be the key, because that is where he was killed.’
‘Not nearer where we found him, Serjeant?’
‘It would be too strange a coincidence. No, something he did there, said there, or perhaps even just being there at that time, was the thing that got him killed.’
‘But if what Rhys ap Iorwerth says is true, they are kin.’
‘So? More folk are killed by people they know than strangers.’ Catchpoll shrugged and set down his empty beaker. ‘You have learnt that, well enough.’
‘But not kin who knew him. They may not even have known he was kin until he arrived and declared himself, gave his lineage. They are kin without such deep feelings that might include hatred.’
‘We know none of this for sure. Bear all in mind, but keep that mind alert to possibilities.’
The next day to Ludlow was not going to test them, although Rhys ap Iowerth grimaced as he settled himself upon his horse, which made Catchpoll grin behind his back. Bradecote worked upon the sound premise that men were men, whatever their language and culture, and made an effort to engage the Welshman in conversation, giving a little and learning a lot, trying to see if there were differences that might alter the way they looked at the situation before them, and more especially whether Madog ap Maredudd would do so.
‘Your laws, laws upon rape and murder, they do not treat them as less than the worst sort of crimes?’
‘We follow the Cyfraith Hywel. They are undoubtedly of the worst sort, but it means in general a heavy galanas, what you would have as wergild, according to the victim’s rank. The same applies to rape, but if the man cannot pay then he loses the contents of his codd.’
Bradecote nodded, for that seemed similar to English laws, where castration was an accepted penalty.
‘If a man is poisoned, the poisoner suffers death.’ Rhys paused. ‘I suppose that is because one could not poison someone upon an instant urge from anger, or in self-defence, but must plan it beforehand.’
‘A death that is concealed, the body hidden away, cannot be paid for under our law, which is why the death of Hywel ap Rhodri is accounted unemendable. It must be from the same reasoning, for hiding the body of the victim implies neither accident nor defence, but intent and foul purpose. I cannot say whether the lord Sheriff will judge that your wergild fine will be paid to Hywel’s kindred. The man was killed in England. If it should turn out that Rhydian killed him, mayhap your prince will arrange matters in Powys. I do not know, and I cannot guess.’
‘But Rhydian was loyal, my lord.’
‘And how many times in history has a man been killed by his closest friend, servant, advisor? We cannot discount him until or unless we find him as dead as his master.’
Rhys crossed himself, and then thought of another unpleasant question.
‘If this woman, the wife of the smith, was indeed killed by Hywel, is he also shown guilty of defiling her … If she was dead already?’
‘He killed her in the process of defilement, so whether she was unconscious or had just ceased living, I call him guilty of both, though you can argue your fines. I tell you true enough, Master Interpreter, if he had committed such crimes in my shire, and was not yet dead … he would wish he were, even before arraigned before the Justices.’ Bradecote spoke between gritted teeth.
Rhys looked at Bradecote’s profile, and felt his own guts knot, for the undersheriff’s face was implacable, merciless. He paled, and Catchpoll, listening and observing, smiled inwardly. It was good that the Welshman should know that the lord Bradecote could be that hard, and it was good that the lord Bradecote had hardened. Only a year ago, h
e had been a well-meaning novice, full of moral certainty, and ‘we do not treat prisoners roughly’. He was still somewhat inclined to that idea, but in certain cases … the smile became overt.
Catchpoll retained the ghost of that smile as they rode into Bromfield. They came to the forge, where the sound of hammer upon anvil was reassuringly normal, but when they saw the face of Gyrth the Smith, that lie was exposed. He might beat the red-hot iron, but in his heart every blow was upon the man who had taken his wife.
‘My lord.’ Gyrth nodded his head in brief deference, and thrust the cooling iron back into his fire.
‘Master Smith. We are on our way back from Powys and have a name to the Welshman whose horse you shod, and who was found killed in our jurisdiction. His name was Hywel ap Rhodri.’
‘Was it indeed? I doubt he died shriven, and assuredly I hope not, for I curse his name and would see him burn in such hellfire as makes my forge the warmth of sun upon grass.’
‘Are you so sure it was him?’ Rhys ap Iorwerth asked, hesitantly. The smith stiffened at the Welsh accent.
‘He was here the night before I shoed his horse, poor beast. He saw my Leofeva, spoke to her, though she answered not, and he saw her, when she told me she was about to depart to see her mother, as he waited for the shoeing next day. What more do you need, Welshman?’ The appellation was spat at Rhys.
‘Could you show us where you found the body of your wife,’ Catchpoll suggested, ‘just in case anything upon the ground adds to that proof?’
Gyrth nodded, lips compressed, and called out. A lad of about ten emerged from the cottage and came to him. The child looked, like his father, rather lost.
‘Keep the fire from hunger, Alwi. I will be back very soon.’
The boy said nothing and looked at the strangers nervously. The smith jerked his head and led the way back along the trackway and, after about five minutes, took little more than an animal’s path, that showed repeated use by fox or badger, through the undergrowth to a gap where a fallen tree had created a space too small to call a clearing. He pointed to one side where twiggy branches had been cast at all angles.
‘I found her over there. The branches covered her. Must I remain?’
‘No need, Master Smith. Thank you.’ Bradecote gave him dismissal, for which he seemed very grateful. Rhys just stood in the patch of sunlight that added glints of red-gold to his trimmed beard. The sheriff’s men stood also for a moment, and then Catchpoll squatted onto his haunches with a groan of aching bones and touched the ground where the body had lain. His eyes searched.
‘Look hard, Walkelin, in all this space. If the smith’s wife resisted, and I think she did, for there are broken bramble stems on that track no wild thing ever made, then mayhap a trace remains of him who harmed her.’ He did not sound hopeful, and was thus most surprised when, after about five minutes, Walkelin let out a cry of success. He turned. Walkelin stood up, something between finger and thumb.
‘What is it, Walkelin?’ asked Bradecote.
‘A silver coin, my lord.’
‘Such a thing could—’ began Rhys, and then stopped.
‘This coin was not minted in England,’ announced Walkelin, turning it over and over. ‘It is not of the King, nor older kings.’
‘Let me see it.’ Bradecote held out his hand, and Walkelin placed it gently in his palm.
‘It is very old. Many hundreds of years old. I saw a coin like this once, and it was from when the Romans were here.’
‘So it is still no proof,’ Rhys suggested, but his tone was not convincing.
‘Have you ever seen such a coin, Rhys ap Iowerth?’ Bradecote stared at the interpreter, who sighed, and nodded.
‘We are the true people of Britain, the people here when the power of Rome came, and when it left. We were pushed by the fair men from across the sea and retreated into the West. Those that could took their silver with them. Sometimes it is found among old walls, old settlements. I cannot say it did not come out of Wales, but, my lord, you said yourself you saw one such in England.’
‘I did, but this one has a small hole in it. I think it was worn about a neck. We can ask the smith but …’ Bradecote saw Rhys redden. ‘Was it Hywel ap Rhodri’s?’
‘I do not know, I swear that upon oath, my lord, but something silver and small as a coin was about his neck, for he touched it sometimes. I never saw it close, and would say none other did either.’
‘But it is sufficient to quash any doubts, Rhys ap Iorwerth.’ Bradecote did not pose it as a question.
‘It is sufficient, my lord.’ Rhys crossed himself again. ‘Shamed am I that a Welshman did this, and I will pray for the woman.’
‘And her motherless son, and wifeless husband.’
‘For them too, my lord.’
Bradecote thought the point had been made enough. He nodded to Catchpoll, and they retraced their steps to the road, and thence to the forge, where the smith’s son was now whispering blandishments to the velvet nose of the undersheriff’s horse. The smith looked up, and his hammer was held ready to fall. His eyes questioned.
‘We found a proof.’ Bradecote would say no more with the boy before him, and the smith closed his eyes for a moment, and the hammer fell, like a clapper on a tolling bell, thought Bradecote.
The Welshman was very quiet as they rode into Ludlow, and clearly overawed by the castle’s size and magnificence. Rhys ap Iorwerth was watched, quite overtly, by one of the castellan’s men, lest he pry where he ought not, and pass such information as he might find to his prince. The castellan smiled when Bradecote told him how impressed the interpreter was by the castle. They rose early next morning, the Worcestershire men keen to return to home ground, and passed through Leominster before noontide. They rode into Cotheridge as the late afternoon saw the shadows begin to lengthen and the sun’s heat dissipate into a more pleasant warmth. The horses were tired, too tired when they halted to shake away the flies that gathered about their heads. Bradecote took Rhys ap Iorwerth to the little dwelling next to the church, where they found Father Wulstan among his fowls, talking as to children. He heard the firm footsteps, and turned, asking who approached, for they were not steps he knew.
‘Hugh Bradecote, Undersheriff, good Father, and Rhys ap Iowerth out of Powys. We can name the man you buried that came to you dead by murder as Hywel ap Rhodri, and the man with me would see where he lies, that he might report back to the man’s kin in Mathrafal.’
‘God be praised that is so. Our prayers are as valued even without a name for the poor man, but this is good news indeed.’ He stretched out an arm and trod towards his own door, where he could follow the line of the wall, and then stepped with a disturbing confidence past his church door as though his eyes were cleared of their fog, and thence about the north-west corner and to where Bradecote and Rhys ap Iorwerth could see the recently turned earth.
‘You see, my lords?’
‘We see, Father Wulstan. Thank you.’ Bradecote wondered if he ought to mention that the man might be in more need of prayers than the elderly priest could ever imagine, but decided against it. Why tell the good man that a rapist and killer lay in his consecrated ground?
Rhys ap Iorwerth pressed silver into the priest’s palm.
‘For Masses for his soul, Father.’
‘Fear not, my son. They shall be said.’
It was a very quiet Rhys who mounted with the sheriff’s men shortly afterwards. They set off eastwards towards Worcester, and he appeared lost in his own thoughts.
‘I wondered, look you, if it was right to give money for prayers for one who had done so much evil,’ he murmured eventually.
‘Surely, such a man has more need of intercessions?’ Bradecote glanced sideways at him.
‘But perhaps he deserves to pay. We all of us sin,’ and Rhys coloured, thinking perhaps of his own sins, confessed or not, ‘but few so coldly − so repeatedly, as it seems − and beneath a surface of being as every man.’
‘If you were asked to give
coin, you gave coin.’ Bradecote shrugged.
Rhys did not reply. A mile on, he halted his horse, with a request that they wait, and some show of embarrassment. He dismounted and forced his way from view into a patch of elder and cobnut.
‘He seems a reasonable sort of man,’ murmured Walkelin, as they waited, and, seeing the expression on Catchpoll’s face, added, ‘for a foreigner, of course.’
‘And what counts as “foreign”, Walkelin?’ enquired Bradecote, with studied casualness.
‘Why, a man from across the borders.’
‘Of Worcestershire, or England?’ The tone remained the same, and Walkelin, focussed upon the question, did not catch Catchpoll’s warning look.
‘Ah, now, my lord, I knows better than to say my shire, for that just makes a man not local. No, “foreign” is them from over the borders.’
‘His mother was from Shropshire.’
‘Then he is but half-foreign,’ beamed Walkelin.
Catchpoll groaned.
‘So it is down to parts, Walkelin, eh? Makes it difficult for me, of course.’ Bradecote ignored Catchpoll, but for a different reason.
‘My lord?’ Walkelin was all open innocence.
‘Well, you see, my father’s sire was born in Normandy, and my mother’s was a Breton. What does that make me?’
‘Lord of Bradecote,’ replied Catchpoll, swiftly, as Walkelin’s eyes widened in horror, and he flushed to the roots of his hair.
Hugh Bradecote laughed loud, and his horse skittered at the unexpected noise.
‘Next time you want to dig a hole, Walkelin, use a spade,’ growled Catchpoll, as the undersheriff calmed his mount, ‘and be thankful the lord Bradecote possesses a good humour.’
‘But I only answ—’
‘Shut up, and look stupid, which should not take much effort.’
Rhys returned, with further apologies, and the quartet trotted to the Worcester ford, with castle and priory beckoning them from the far side.
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