‘Alas for her, the lord Thorold is the elder son. He was an eighth-month child, always sickly as a lad, and one who, though I hate to say it, cannot fit the role. He plans, he acts, but always the lady Matilda watches and makes him feel his inferiority. She doted upon the younger son, the lordling Durand, who is stronger of body and attitude, though not strong in faith, I fear. She is most anxious of late, since he has returned to us in such poor health.’
‘She and the lady Avelina tend him, we hear.’ Walkelin added his mite.
‘They do, and have had young Corbin to assist them when strength was needed to lift the poor man. He has been sick of an undulant fever, and in much pain of the body, which has distressed both ladies.’ Father Dunstan shook his head. ‘Such afflictions are sent to try us.’
‘It must be bad when a man thinks he is recovering, and slips back into an ague,’ suggested Catchpoll. ‘Hard upon the spirit.’
‘His spirit,’ responded the priest, with the first sign of acerbity they had heard from him, ‘is rebellious. He rebels against his God, and his body, and has to learn that both cannot be treated with contempt.’ He coloured. ‘When he was at his worst, I went to offer extreme unction, and he swore at me, and at the Almighty, though I hope that was the fever yelling. However, he has refused to make confession since, and it worries me. The lady Matilda has told me to be patient, and that he will recover as long as I pester him not.’
‘And the lady Avelina?’ Bradecote pushed her name back into the conversation.
‘She is not so sure he will become again his old self, and it makes her sad of heart. She has no malice to her, but she is the sort of woman who opens like a flower in sunshine with admiration and closes at rebuke.’
‘And her brother by marriage admires her?’ Catchpoll suggested.
‘Durand has always admired her.’ Father Dunstan sounded regretful.
‘You do not suggest more, Father? I have to ask.’ Bradecote could not avoid the question.
‘I do not, but, if you were to ask if it were unthinkable, I would have to admit it is not. I do not condone sin, but I know we are all fallen from grace, and in such a state … I pray that the worst has always been but both flattering the other, for she is a comely woman, and Durand more of a “man” than her lord. He has neither land nor wealth to achieve a good marriage, and she is in a marriage that is nothing but duty. Both are needy. So if they play with wooing words, that is wrong, but might be much worse, whether in the thought or the deed.’
‘It cannot have pleased young Corbin, though, having to tend the man who is experienced with women, and whom the lady he sets upon a height weeps for.’ Catchpoll pulled a face. ‘That is cruel for a lad.’
‘Ah, but the lady Avelina has showered him with soft praise, saying how much they “cannot do without him”, that it offsets the pain, and of course it means he gets to see his lady more than he would normally do. He is both happy and unhappy at one time, as happens in youth.’ Father Dunstan smiled then. ‘I was not born tonsured. I remember the confusion of feelings when manhood is new, untested, and both keen and nervous.’
‘Are you happy and unhappy at one and the same time, young Walkelin?’ asked Catchpoll, grinning at his serjeanting apprentice.
‘Indeed I am, Serjeant,’ replied Walkelin, instantly. ‘I am happy that I please my lord Bradecote, and unhappy that you still have fault to find in me, so often.’ The tone was vaguely reproachful, but his eyes twinkled.
‘It should be accounted a blessing by you, Father, that you do not have to train a youth to follow after. They are a great trial, a great trial.’ Catchpoll’s voice held a ripple of amusement.
The atmosphere was suddenly too light and jovial for the undersheriff.
‘I think,’ announced Bradecote, ‘that we have trespassed upon your hospitality too long, Father Dunstan. We ought to be out, irritating the haymakers with our foolish questions.’ He rose, and his companions took their lead from him. They thanked the priest, and went outside, where the blazing sun made them screw up their eyes at its glare.
‘Useful,’ remarked Catchpoll, laconically.
‘Indeed,’ agreed Bradecote. ‘But we have two brothers with motive enough to cast the shadow of doubt upon the other, and yet that doubt might still be true, and one of them will not make confession. Obstinacy or guilt?’
‘And a lad who might choose to play the “gallant knight” if he thought his lady was being insulted by the attentions of Hywel ap Rhodri,’ Catchpoll added. ‘Foolish it might be, but I have known such deadly foolishness before, and a knife is as oft a weapon of rage as of planned assault.’
‘And if it was the steward’s son, no doubt but all the manor would draw in upon itself in support. They would not see killing an outsider, one who had mistreated the servant girls, as worth a rope’s length.’ Walkelin warmed to his theme. ‘Then they would have moved the body over the Hundred boundary and hoped never to have had anything mentioned again.’
‘At which point we start looking for the servant, Rhydian,’ Bradecote said, heavily. ‘Your theory only works if he is dead, and what worries me is that if they took Hywel ap Rhodri over the boundary, they would not have left the other body behind, since it would be just as damning.’ Bradecote rubbed his chin, meditatively. ‘If the man spoke little English, how would they suggest he took his pony, whatever coin and things of value that his master possessed, but not his horse, and go … where? He could scarcely go back to Mathrafal and claim he had simply “lost” Hywel ap Rhodri. And what is more, even if he understood, why would he accept?’
‘I cannot see he would, which brings us back to where is the body?’ Catchpoll agreed.
‘What about the Teme? A body pushed into the water in the evening might travel some way downstream before being noticed.’ Walkelin spoke more in hope than belief.
‘Bodies in water turn up eventually, and I would think well before now. Besides, the river is low at this season, even with that Welsh rain we just had.’ Catchpoll dismissed the idea.
‘Could they have buried the servant over the boundary and dumped the master because of fearing discovery?’ Walkelin tried again.
‘But they were not worried about digging a hole, in woodland with many roots, beforehand? That too does not ring true.’ Catchpoll was even less impressed.
‘Our trouble is that the evidence we have conflicts, all of it. I doubt the villagers will be of any help, but we ought to ask. Come on.’ Hugh Bradecote led them towards the hayfield.
The pale-yellow gold of the field was dotted by the line of peasants, turning the drying hay. The recent rain had caught them with it cut and some had rotted, but the rest was salvageable, if less sweet. Now they wanted fair weather to dry it thoroughly before they brought it into ricks. They looked up for a moment as the three men approached, but did not stop their travail. Catchpoll stepped to the fore, wanting to make the most of Hugh Bradecote’s station.
‘Listen to me. This here is the lord Bradecote, Undersheriff of this shire. He seeks any information about the Welshmen who were at this manor but a few weeks past. If any of you spoke with them, saw them even, then come and tell the lord Bradecote what you saw, what was said.’
The faces remained largely blank.
‘What cause would the likes of us have to speak with them?’ grumbled a weathered-looking man.
‘Someone must have at least seen them.’ Catchpoll gave the villagers the benefit of his gimlet-eyed stare. A young woman moved, but an arm was stretched out before her, and she halted. ‘If you have words to say, maid, say them, private or public, at your choice.’ The serjeant did not threaten but his tone was commanding in a fatherly way. The girl braced herself and stepped forward.
‘I saw him, the Welshman, the evening he rode into the manor, with the little man on the grey pony behind him. It was eventide, and we were coming in from the pease field. He looked at me as he passed, and he was well dressed and his horse good, so I lowered my eyes and bent the knee, and he laugh
ed.’ This had clearly annoyed the girl. ‘Then … then he asked, with that voice that goes up and down, if my knee was all I would bend for him.’ She shuddered, and stared at the ground, blushing. ‘He came out of the manor gate an hour before sunset, and was looking about. I hid, because I feared he would be seeking me, and … He scared me, for his face was angry, but like a hunting animal.’
‘A cautious maid stays a maid the longer, so you did not do wrong,’ Catchpoll commended her, loudly enough so that some would hear and her name be less likely to be bandied in gossip.
‘Did you see him again?’ asked Bradecote.
‘No … my lord.’ The assertion was too vehement, and her eyes darted sideways along the line of workers.
So that was a lie, thought all three of the sheriff’s men.
‘Very well. Thank you …?’ He raised an interrogative eyebrow.
‘Winfraeth, my lord.’
‘Have any other of you seen the Welshman or his servant? Answer me.’ Bradecote used the command, and looked at the peasantry before him.
‘We work the fields, my lord,’ came a placating voice, ‘and have not time to waste in gazing.’
‘But a stranger is always of interest, a source of good gossip to pass among friends.’ Catchpoll could almost hear their reluctance in the silence. ‘We come not to threaten or accuse, only to seek pieces of the broken pot of events. If you are unsure, or do not want your neighbour to know, then we will be about the manor a day or so yet, and have ears to hear.’ It was the best he thought they could achieve, standing there in the hayfield. He glanced for the briefest moment at Hugh Bradecote, who gave the smallest of nods, and then turned away. Walkelin stepped in beside them.
‘They are hiding something,’ he said, with certainty.
‘You don’t need to tell us that,’ mumbled Catchpoll. ‘As soon as we reaches cover, and out of their sight, you comes back as close as you can and watch that girl, see if any accost her. We needs to know what and who is putting pressure upon her not to speak more, and whether it is the man we saw put out his arm or nay.’
‘Yes, Serjeant.’
‘Be swift, because as I reckon, they will want to speak with her now, not later. We will be back in the manor, won’t we, my lord?’ He looked at Bradecote, who was frowning.
‘Yes. Yes, it is as good a place as any at present.’
Walkelin went about obeying the order and undersheriff and serjeant ambled slowly back towards the palisaded manor.
‘Trouble is, Catchpoll, silence is a good weapon. If they all keep quiet, what can we prove?’
‘As yet, little, my lord, but keeping silent is not as easy as you would suppose. We watches, we listens, we niggles them.’
‘And we find that damned horse.’
‘That, my lord, would be very useful indeed.’
‘And I am wondering when I might speak with the ailing Durand FitzRoger, over whom such care is taken. I have a fancy that it should be now.’
‘There is them that is sick, and them that is playing sick, you mean?’
‘Possibly, Catchpoll, though a fever such as his might have him delirious one day and spry of mind a few days hence, and back again. His mother was mighty keen I did not set foot within the solar, which makes me suspicious.’
‘Glad to hear it, my lord.’ Catchpoll gave his death’s head grin. ‘Suspicious is what we needs to be, each and every day.’
‘I shall keep that as my watchword, you old thief-ferret.’ Bradecote shook his head and grew serious once more. ‘There is much here, and yet nothing.’
‘There should be more when we have spoken to the fancy-named Corbin, I think, my lord. There are links, and he is involved in many.’
‘We ought to have asked in the field for him to come forward, if there. My fault.’
‘Well, if he is lulled a little, not thinking we are keen to hear him, he may be lax. He attends the man who is ill, and dotes upon his lady who would undoubtedly have had Hywel leering at her. He is likely to visit the stables often, and he was not about the courtyard and buildings once we came from the hall. No youth was about, only the cook and maids.’
‘But as logically he could be out in the field, lending a strong young body to the labour, Catchpoll.’
‘True, but I have my doubts. He might be attending the sick man even now, of course. If you gain admittance to the solar, I would imagine he would be sent out to avoid him hearing the words of his betters.’
‘And he will walk into the welcoming embrace of Serjeant Catchpoll?’
‘I would not go that far, my lord, though it is an “embrace” many a man in Worcester has learnt to fear, I am glad to say.’
‘So I am to flush him out if he is there. Fair enough. If he is not …?’
‘Then I will ask for him about the manor buildings, and if he is not about, return to the fields, by which time I hope Walkelin will have taken another step forward for us.’
Walkelin was at that moment crouched in the long grass of the field boundary, which was not an unpleasant place to be on a hot, sunny day, or at least it would not be if he had not found a place in close proximity to an ants’ nest. He was trying to observe without being seen, whilst attempting to prevent the insects crawling inside his cotte. He was successful in the first and failing miserably in the second. It seemed that the fieldworkers had simply not had the time to halt and discuss the import of the sheriff’s men coming among them, and had formed line again, turning the hay to dry more evenly. Walkelin wondered if Winfraeth had been approached even as they had turned their backs on the villagers, and he was thus wasting his time, and being bitten by ants for no good reason.
He watched, and wriggled, and sweated, but only for a few uncomfortable minutes before the line seemed to ripple about the girl, and she was flanked by two men, one young and the other, the one who had tried to forestall her in front of the lord Undersheriff, of middle age. He wondered if the latter were her father. Both men continued working, but appeared to draw closer to Winfraeth time and again, and Walkelin would swear that they spoke with her, for she shook her head repeatedly to each in turn. What he could not tell was whether they were themselves asking questions, or were receiving her assurance that she would say nothing more. He committed the men to memory by face and form, and waited for a few minutes, wondering whether he ought to remain in case there was more ‘said’, but it soon became clear that the practical task was once more all that occupied them. He slithered backwards, secretly hoping that he squashed a few ants in the process, to a point at which he might walk, bent low as if with a crippled back, until hidden by a clump of elder and holly. He straightened, wincing slightly, swore as he brushed a final ant from his neck, whence it had reached in the ascent to his cheek, and strode purposefully towards the manorial buildings. He hoped his report would satisfy his superiors.
Chapter Eight
Undersheriff and serjeant were admitted into the bailey without question, though they were watched every step by curious eyes. They entered the hall to find it empty, and walked to the door at the end, where Catchpoll beat a smart tattoo upon the heavy planks. It was opened by a man, or rather one just ‘fledged’ to manhood, muscled from a man’s labour, but yet with a certain gangly untidiness of limb and uncertainty of jawline. This must be Corbin, Brictmer the Steward’s hope and joy. He vacillated between looking respectful and bullish, as if he could not decide whether he should admit them or not. In the end he did what was wisest, and left the problem to someone more important.
‘The lord Sheriff’s men are here, my lady.’ He did not specify which lady he addressed.
The lady Avelina emerged from the gloom, thrusting Corbin out of the way before her, and pulling the door closed behind her. She stood, head held high and bosom heaving, which pleased Catchpoll no end, before the solar door. Her arms were outstretched as if protecting it and its occupant with her body. Corbin looked even more unsure what he should do. The lady’s pose looked very impressive until the door was op
ened behind her by the lady Matilda, whereupon the younger woman almost fell backwards into the chamber.
‘Do not be a fool, girl,’ she admonished, as if her daughter-in-law were a scullery maid, and stared at Bradecote. ‘If you must speak with my son, lord Undersheriff, then speak, but be mindful that he is weak, and still confused of mind. If you press upon him too hard, I will have you leave.’ Bradecote wondered if she might actually try to achieve that herself, forcibly. ‘He,’ and she pointed at Catchpoll, ‘does not enter.’
Bradecote took breath to remonstrate at being given orders, but Catchpoll responded swiftly.
‘Be sure I shall not, my lady.’ It was unusually meek and mild of Catchpoll, but Bradecote did not so much as blink an eye, knowing the serjeant had never been interested in remaining for the interview, and now had Corbin on hand to ply with questions.
Bradecote stepped into the solar, and the smell of lavender and rosemary overlaid with illness, but he did not smell death. Just for a moment his brain marvelled that it was that particular sense that alerted him, more than sight or sound, to its presence, as if it whispered in the manner of a cooking odour, teasing with what was to come. The room was overwarm, with a brazier burning beyond the bed, and a man with sallow skin that looked as bloodless as vellum, lying beneath the covers. Well, there was not a doubt the man had been very ill. However, the eyes, which were open but a little, did not, thought Bradecote, have the distant, bemused look he would have expected with such a complexion. They glinted in a surprisingly alert way.
‘Durand FitzRoger, I am Hugh Bradecote, Undersheriff. I understand you are ill − have been ill − but I am investigating the death of an envoy of the Prince of Powys, almost certainly within this manor, and while your fever might have been in abeyance. I must therefore ask questions of you. Do you understand?’
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