Chapter Five
William de Beauchamp looked at the four weary men before him and listened. When Bradecote finished speaking he sat in silence for a minute.
‘I shall send to Earl Robert and tell him the news, though by now he must know something untoward befell the messenger.’
‘My lord Sheriff, my prince would have me go to the Earl Robert, for I carry the message lost with the death of Hywel ap Rhodri.’ Rhys spoke up, and the three men who had travelled with him turned to look at him in surprise. ‘Upon my return I would go to wherever the lord Bradecote is asking his questions, and can then report back afterwards as my prince commanded me.’
‘Kept that dark,’ muttered Catchpoll, and Rhys looked almost apologetically at him.
‘No deception was intended, but my prince could not discount that someone knew Hywel ap Rhodri was his messenger, and sought to prevent him for that reason. Travelling as I have has been protection in numbers and by disguise, if you will. I was ordered to do so by my prince.’
William de Beauchamp remained expressionless.
‘You will have escort there, but if you have cause to await some answer, that returns with you alone. Madog ap Maredudd’s business is with the Earl Robert, not this shire.’
‘As you see fit, my lord Sheriff.’ Rhys bowed low.
‘I would speak with my men, privately.’ De Beauchamp gave the command, and the Welshman withdrew. ‘Well?’ The sheriff looked at Bradecote and Catchpoll.
‘My lord?’ Bradecote frowned.
‘Could there be anything in the idea that the messenger was killed for the message?’
‘I doubt it, my lord.’ Catchpoll pulled a cogitating face. ‘Knowing he had a message means someone from Wales knew why he was sent, and we comes back to why wait until into Worcestershire to kill him? None upon the journey would know of his role, and the bastard’s habits mean that we might suspect any man within three miles of the death who has wife, or daughter, sister, or even mother.’
‘I agree with Catchpoll, my lord. It stretches belief too far to imagine a political murder.’ Bradecote shook his head. ‘We can but try in Doddenham and see what we can unearth.’
‘Which may be Rhydian the servant,’ added Walkelin. Catchpoll glared at him, but the serjeant’s apprentice had lost his initial terror of the lord Sheriff when perforce he had to work alone with him, and, although very respectful, no longer shook silently in the background hoping not to be noticed.
‘Which certainly might be the messenger’s horse. A good horse would be kept, and if our arrival is not suspected, it will not be hidden.’ Bradecote stifled a yawn. ‘My lord, we have ridden the day long, and would be back to Doddenham early on the morrow. With your permission …’
‘Get to your beds, yes. If Earl Robert gets his message, from whatever man, and knows the previous one is dead, we have done all he would want of us. As for Madog ap Maredudd, well, Powys is thankfully not our neighbour, not our problem.’
‘Amen to that,’ growled Catchpoll.
Bradecote, Catchpoll and Walkelin set off next morning, yet again on the road to Leominster, which was becoming depressingly familiar. For Walkelin and Catchpoll at least, the night had been spent in their own beds and with home cooking, though Catchpoll did not reveal what Mistress Catchpoll said to relighting her cook fire long after she had damped it down. Bradecote had eaten well, from what the castle kitchens could provide, but wished he could have gone further by a few miles and slept in the comfort of his manorial bed and with his loving wife.
As they reached Broadwas they went to the fields and asked after any horses of the description given of Hywel ap Rhodri’s white-stockinged brown, and the smaller grey. The villagers were hot, and toiling hard, and the trio got shaking heads and blank looks in answer.
‘You realise, my lord, that if Hywel ap Rhodri was killed in Doddenham, then him turning up in Cotheridge is almost funny.’ Catchpoll looked sideways at the undersheriff.
‘Why?’
‘Because Cotheridge is an outlier, so to speak, an isolated parish of the same Doddingtree Hundred as Doddenham.’
‘You jest.’
‘Not on such things as Hundred boundaries, my lord.’
‘Would everyone in Doddenham know this?’
‘That I cannot say, though they would know Broadwas is across their boundary and in Oswaldslow Hundred, so why take it so far?’
‘Mayhap the person who took it did not know, but thought that going even further into the next Hundred, as they saw it, would make it seem not like some corpse-over-the-border game,’ offered Walkelin.
‘It is to be hoped that is true, or else we have to go back and speak severely with all those honest-looking liars in the Broadwas fields.’ Bradecote swore, softly and in English, which made Catchpoll smile.
The manor of Doddenham was held by one Thorold FitzRoger, and William de Beauchamp described him as ‘a man of small stature, clever, but not as clever as he thinks himself’. Bradecote had a vague image of a man in his mind, which was confirmed when they rode into the bailey of a neat manor with a well-kept wooden palisade, and found the lord about to go hawking, for a man stood close by with a falcon upon his gauntleted hand. FitzRoger was of average height, but of slender, almost delicate, build, his hair fair and fine as an infant’s, and his eyes had a hooded look.
‘Thorold FitzRoger?’ Bradecote questioned, but with authority.
‘Yes.’ The man looked at the undersheriff, with a similar vague idea of having seen him before.
‘I am Hugh Bradecote, de Beauchamp’s undersheriff. We come seeking information on one Hywel ap Rhodri.’
‘Hah!’ snorted FitzRoger. ‘Do not tell me, for I will guess. He has been straying with maids across half the shire, yes? And there are men aplenty after his blood.’
‘One at least achieved his goal, for Hywel ap Rhodri is dead, stabbed in the back.’ FitzRoger looked mildly surprised, but not at all upset. ‘We heard he was a kinsman of yours.’ Bradecote kept his tone casual.
‘Kinsman, yes, but not one I would choose to take into my hall a second time.’
‘He was here, then, a little under two weeks past?’
‘About then.’ FitzRoger made no attempt to deny it, but sounded vague. He dismounted and sent his horse back to the stables. ‘You will want all, no doubt. Best you come within.’ It was an invitation, but made without enthusiasm. The sheriff’s men dismounted, and followed him into a hall that was wooden framed, but with a stone solar and upper chamber at one end, with battlements above it. The tower end would provide security in times of peril, but there had either been lack of manpower or inclination to replace the rest of the hall in stone. The window shutters were opened wide to let in the summer air, and pools of sunlight flooded across the rush-strewn floor. A sparrow chirruped in the eaves. FitzRoger waved a hand at a bench against one wall, and Bradecote sat, though Catchpoll and Walkelin remained standing, leaning a little against the wall itself. FitzRoger took his own seat.
‘He arrived the better part of two weeks ago, late one evening, as you said, and declared himself my cousin.’
‘You had no reason to doubt him?’ Bradecote asked.
‘None. You see, he could give accurate account of his ancestry, knew much of my mother, and even the month of my own birth. Besides, my mother confirmed all he said. He was kin, and hospitality his due.’
‘But you did not like him.’ It was a statement.
‘At the first I had neither liking nor dislike.’ FitzRoger shrugged. ‘All I knew was what stood before me. It did not take him long, however, to raise hackles. Free he was, with the serving maids, as if they were there to amuse him. That Welsh tongue of his spouted sweet words, but it might as well have been a serpent’s forked tongue, and he was patting and fondling them, as I discovered, whether encouraged or not. He made mischief in the two full days he was here, and glad I was that he was gone on the morning of the third day.’
‘Did he give a reason for being in Worcestershire?’ Br
adecote wondered if the man had gone willingly or been ejected.
‘I did not ask, and no reason was offered,’ replied FitzRoger, easily.
At this point the oak door of the solar opened, and a shapely young woman with large dark eyes, and raven plait showing from beneath the folds of her coif, emerged. She stared at Hugh Bradecote for a long moment and then transferred her gaze to FitzRoger. It was not a gaze of love and adoration. Bradecote rose.
‘My lady FitzRoger?’ From garb and demeanour she could be no other.
She nodded, but said nothing.
‘This is the Undersheriff of the Shire, Avelina, come to report that my disreputable cousin has met with an untimely, though perhaps not unexpected, end.’ There was, thought Catchpoll, a peculiar relish to the way the man gave the information, and the lady paled.
‘He is dead?’
‘He is, and by intent,’ confirmed Bradecote. ‘Your lord says that he spent two days here, about two weeks past, and was gone upon the third day. It is our guess he was dead within hours of departure … if not earlier.’ There was the suggestion, the hint that the manor of Doddenham itself lay under suspicion.
‘What do you mean, Bradecote?’ FitzRoger rose, his arms braced upon those of his chair. ‘You said he was dead, but not where, nor when.’
‘What I say. His stripped corpse was found, rotting, some days later, hidden just over the border of Cotheridge parish. He did not ride that far.’
The lady pressed her fingers to her lips.
‘Then he was attacked by robbers, and murdered for horse and raiment. In days such as these, men travel at risk.’ FitzRoger was dismissive.
‘Indeed, but he did not travel alone, did he, but with a servant, one Rhydian.’
‘He had a man, but I did not know his name. He was but a servant, and if he is not found then it is perfectly clear what occurred. The man killed his master and made away with all he had. Yet you have the audacity to come here …’ FitzRoger’s voice rose, ‘and accuse …’
‘I have accused nobody. I come with questions and seek answers. We,’ he indicated his companions, ‘would speak freely with those in this manor, within the bailey and in the village without, to find all we can about what was seen and heard during the visit of Hywel ap Rhodri.’ He paused for a moment, and added, softly, ‘That is telling you what we will do, not asking your permission for it.’ For no obvious reason, he did not take to FitzRoger.
‘Then I cannot prevent you. How long will you remain?’
‘As long as needful.’
‘I see little need for you to remain, now the news is given. Had you any real thought that the crime originated here, you would have come sooner,’ declared FitzRoger, huffily, and Bradecote thought the man was trying to calm himself.
‘Our hall is at your disposal, my lord,’ offered the lady FitzRoger, before her husband could exacerbate matters further. ‘Such a foul death must see the culprit brought to the King’s justice.’ Her voice was silken-soft, and she contrived to look both approachable and alluring, and yet out of reach at one and the same time. Catchpoll thought it said a lot about both the woman and her marriage. Of course, the majority of unions at the manorial level were not based upon mutual passion and affection, but this one had little barbs about it. He wondered if Bradecote would declare his own wedded state, or let her play her tricks and see if it led them deeper into the reality of life in Doddenham.
FitzRoger himself made a vague assent that lacked any conviction.
‘Thank you, my lady. We shall be as discreet as the circumstances permit, and would not cause unnecessary upheaval. Should we remain for some time, space upon your hall floor, and simple fare will suffice us.’ Bradecote’s voice lost all shrieval authority and was ‘grateful guest’. Catchpoll kept a straight face.
‘Have you anything more you need to ask of me, or will you now keep my steward and all others from their duties?’ enquired FitzRoger, petulantly.
‘There is nothing that is obvious at present, but we would speak with your lady here, and you mentioned your mother.’
‘My mother is busy.’ There was annoyance, and something more, in FitzRoger’s voice.
‘Too busy to speak to the sheriff’s men?’ Bradecote raised an eyebrow. ‘What possi—’
‘She attends my lord’s brother, my lord, who lies sick of some undulant fever. She and I have been nursing him several weeks. He came here from his lord, Gilbert de Clare, about a month ago, and is again confined to his bed, in much pain.’
‘I am sorry. However, if you and she share his care, I would have speech with her, after yourself. Might she be fetched?’
‘I will see, my lord, but …’ the lady Avelina FitzRoger gave a wry smile, ‘my lord’s lady mother is not one who can be commanded.’
‘Then stress that I do not command, but request, my lady.’ Bradecote smiled at her, and then looked to her lord. ‘You may go hawking as you planned, FitzRoger.’ He dismissed the man in his own hall, knowing it would rankle, and that he could either obey the command, and look inferior, or remain and look like a sullen child. FitzRoger left, reminding Bradecote that his brother was of the household of a lord in favour with the King.
Bradecote sent Catchpoll and Walkelin to begin talking to the manor servants and was left with the lady Avelina. She came to the bench upon which he had been seated, and placed herself further along it, the folds of her skirt carefully arranged. She was closer than needful, but far enough away to be decent. She turned herself slightly towards him so that she presented her face in half-profile, and it was a comely one at that. She folded her hands in her lap, meekly.
‘I scarce think I can assist you, my lord, but ask your questions.’ The silkiness of voice was pronounced.
A year ago, thought Bradecote, I would have found this act unsettling. He found women who were more ‘want to be chased’ than ‘chaste’ difficult, for they had an obvious physical appeal but were entirely false, in his view. They exuded a neediness, yet were rapacious, bold, dangerous. His Christina was bold, but in a different way, more independent, and not needy. Loving her, having her love, he could stand back the further from such as the lady Avelina, play her game without embarrassment, and use her wiles against her. He lowered his gaze for a moment, as if both attracted and unsure. This pleased her, for, when he looked at her again there was the hint of a smile playing about her mouth.
‘My lady, I would ask if there is anything you recall from your husband’s kinsman’s visit that might help us. Did he argue with his servant, or anyone else? Was he at ease?’ The questions seemed general, unthreatening.
‘He was our guest.’ She stressed the ‘our’. ‘His servant I saw but upon the edges of my view, if you understand me. He was attentive, almost,’ she paused, and a delicate frown appeared between her brows, ‘as if guarding him, protective, which was foolish, since the master was strong of limb and body, and the servant puny, more like …’ She did not make the comparison with her lord, but Bradecote heard it, unsaid. ‘I think he, Hywel … ap Rhodri, found that irritating. I presume the man had served him from when both were in their youth, though his master was older. I saw Hywel ap Rhodri wave him away upon occasion, but what he said I cannot tell, for it was in Welsh. There was no sign that the servant was angered by a little lordly shouting.’
‘Sometimes one need not understand words to get the meaning of a conversation. Ladies, especially, are good at listening.’ Bradecote supported the flattery with a smile that brought a soft colouring to the lady Avelina’s cheek.
‘The servant sounded like a nursemaid.’ The lady giggled. ‘You know, they fuss and warn, and sigh, and shake their heads.’
‘So you would be surprised if he had murdered his master?’ Bradecote said, softly, bringing her straight back to the ending of events. She crossed herself.
‘I cannot see it, I cannot.’ She spoke truthfully, he would swear.
‘I have to ask, my lady … your lord said that Hywel ap Rhodri upset the maidserva
nts, by being over familiar with them. Did they complain to you?’
‘Complain?’ There was a hint of surprise in her voice. ‘They are serving maids.’ She tried to sound imperious, but did not quite manage it, and under his firm gaze, faltered, blushed. ‘Some men are more … manly, their appetites greater.’ She shrugged. ‘It is their nature, and both a blessing and a curse. He apologised to me, said it was something he had made confession for too many times to number, but that it meant nothing, was just him obeying nature. “It is the sin of being a man”, he said. I forgave him.’ The blush deepened, and she lowered her gaze to her lap.
Bradecote noted that she had said the apology was to her, not before her, and that ‘she’ forgave him. He could almost imagine the man with his lilting blandishments, persuading the lady that it had all been light-hearted nonsense, sport that harmed none except himself, when he made those confessions and did penance. Bradecote doubted he made confession for what he had done to Leofeva, the smith’s wife. Had Avelina FitzRoger faced him with the accusations in pique, because he had been plying her with seductive words also, if nothing more? He would have been that daring, but would she? He tried to take one step further back in his mind to evaluate her. Had she made eyes at him to tease, or because she was a wife more in name than act, and her ‘neediness’ was not just for admiration? There had been some deep resentment between husband and wife, for certain, but whether it was him seeing her as generous in her looks to others, or her resenting him for lack of ‘verve’ he could not say. His own first impression of Thorold FitzRoger was not one of those slight, sinewy men who defy their physique and would be found at the forefront of any fight, wreaking havoc upon their opponents. The man had been about to go hawking, and hawking struck Bradecote as his ideal sport, watching something else do the killing, and not exerting himself. Of course, appearances could deceive. The lady Avelina was watching him, waiting. He focussed on events.
‘And when he left, did your lord intimate that he would not be welcome if he returned by this way?’
Faithful Unto Death Page 7