The man wet his lips, and nodded, slowly.
‘Hywel ap Rhodri was your cousin, the son of your mother’s sister. He came here about two weeks since. You saw him.’ Bradecote had no proof of this but did not offer it as a question. If the man refuted it, so be it.
‘But a little.’ The voice was tired.
‘You supped with him, perhaps?’
Again Durand FitzRoger nodded.
‘Was his manner towards the women, of rank or otherwise, seemly?’
‘I cannot recall.’
No, thought Bradecote, you say the words, but memory makes those eyes glitter the more. You recall well enough.
‘Did he tell you why he came?’
‘No.’
‘Did he ask to have speech with your brother alone?’ Again, Bradecote had no proof, but he was interested as to whether Durand would immediately create distance between the murdered man and his brother, or not. He watched, watched as intently as a cat with a mouse, and was as still. There was a pause, very slight, when he would swear Durand was weighing up possibilities. There came the nod, and Bradecote heard a soft but sudden intake of breath from behind his back. Was that surprise at a truth admitted or a lie created?
‘But you did not speak with him privately?’
‘No. Saw him at dinner. Welshman.’ Durand sounded suitably vague and confused, and his hand gripped the blanket convulsively. There was a swishing of skirts.
‘You have learnt all you need, and can see my son is in no condition to be of use to you.’ The lady Matilda’s voice was low, but firm. Bradecote did not turn to look at her, but raised a hand to quiet her.
‘One question more, my lady. FitzRoger, did you kill, or did you have killed, Hywel ap Rhodri?’
‘No. I did not.’
‘Thank you. I wish you a full recovery, and safe return to service with de Clare.’ Bradecote turned, and found the lady Matilda glaring at him. The lady Avelina ignored him entirely, but went to the bed, and took up a cloth from a bowl of water set on a stand beside it, and began to bathe Durand’s face, murmuring as a mother to a child, and Bradecote thought the curling lip of the older woman was more at that than at him.
‘I could have answered your questions,’ hissed the lady Matilda. ‘What point was there in agitating a sick man?’
‘I think, my lady, he is strong enough not to be “agitated” by the few questions I put to him.’
‘And what weight can you give to the answers of a fevered brain, my lord? He is confused of mind, and nothing he says is assured.’
‘Then you must corroborate. Did he only meet Hywel ap Rhodri at dinner?’
‘Yes.’
‘And he did not speak with him alone?’
‘No.’
‘How can you know that? Or do you watch your son as a hen with but a single chick, and never let him from your sight?’
‘You are insulting, my lord.’
‘No, it is you who are insulting, insulting my intelligence. If your son was well enough to be sat at table, he would not be under your eye for every minute, for he is a man grown, with his own will. He would not relish you acting as nursemaid.’
She coloured.
‘When did you hear that Hywel was on his way to Gloucester?’ Bradecote threw the unexpected question at her.
‘I … do not recall.’
‘It would seem a rash thing to make known, as his prince’s envoy.’
‘He was among kin.’
‘Kin he had never met before, and if he knew Durand FitzRoger is of the household of Gilbert de Clare, then he may well know that de Clare is, for the present, sided with King Stephen.’
‘He did not make any announcement. I must have heard it from his servant.’ She looked flustered.
‘What was the servant’s name, lady?’ He was pressing her, pressing her hard.
‘How should I know or care?’ She drew herself up, imperiously.
‘Because I am wondering why you were present when his servant made such a declaration.’
‘He said it to Hywel ap Rhodri, at …’
‘Dinner?’
‘The second night. Durand was not present upon the second night, for he was feeling unwell again.’
‘How convenient.’ Hugh Bradecote was not a man who sneered often, but when he did, it was impressive. It also achieved his aim. ‘I am wondering also how you understood the man when he had almost no words other than Welsh.’
‘You cannot speak to me in this manner. I am Matilda FitzGilbert, lady of this manor and …’
‘Lady mother of the lord, Thorold FitzRoger, which is not quite the same, since he is wed.’ Bradecote wanted this woman angry, for she was only going to betray things she wanted hidden when in ire. His voice was smooth. ‘I wonder what Hywel ap Rhodri wanted to talk in private about, with your elder son?’
‘Durand’s mind wanders. There was no meeting.’
‘Do not tell me you watch Thorold as closely as Durand, for it would be impossible if one were tied to a sickbed and the other entertaining a guest, however unwillingly.’
If looks could be weapons, Bradecote knew he would have a dagger at his throat by now.
‘He would have been explaining his misdemeanours with the servant girls, no doubt.’ It sounded a feeble reason even to the lady.
‘A private interview over a subject that was probably raised by the lady Avelina telling her husband of his wandering hands in the first place?’
‘She would not complain if a man’s hands wandered over any part of her,’ snapped the lady Matilda.
‘Actually, I was referring to the maid Aldith having complained to her mistress, but we will let that pass, for now.’ He concealed his interest. ‘You see, if the lady of the manor,’ he stressed the position, and saw her squirm, ‘reported it to her husband, and you also were well aware of it, it sounds most unlikely that Hywel ap Rhodri would want to talk in private to make an apology.’
‘I doubt he ever apologised for anything he did,’ she spat.
‘That, at the least, my lady, is probably very true. What did he do that made you so angered against him?’
She flushed, a deep, dark redness suffusing her cheeks, overlaying the mere spots that marked her anger. Bradecote would swear she was embarrassed, and suddenly he thought of what she had said earlier, that Hywel was like his father. He made a guess, but it was not a wild one.
‘Did Rhodri ap Arwel ever apologise to you?’
Her response took him completely by surprise. She hit him, full across the face, very hard. His cheek stung, and he could feel the scarlet weal of her imprint rise upon his skin. Only by the slight flaring of his nostrils might one have seen that he had to control himself at that.
‘Was that what you would have liked to do to him? Perhaps you did, all those years ago.’ His voice was still even. ‘Let me guess. If Hywel, and I am afraid we know an awful lot about Hywel ap Rhodri and women, was like his sire, then Rhodri ap Arwel would be bold enough to woo two sisters and find it exciting, and then choose one to the disappointment of the other. You were disappointed, weren’t you, and then married off to Roger FitzGilbert, a man as exciting as a bucket and, I guess again, hardly youthful and vigorous. It must have been a great disappointment. I wonder at you being so dutiful.’
‘She had no choice.’
Bradecote turned. Avelina FitzRoger stood in the doorway, and her mouth was twisted in disdain.
‘But—’
‘Rhodri ap Arwel preferred Hywel’s mother, Emma, and I am sure I can see why, but not until after he had “tasted the pleasures” of the older sister. Not quite good enough, were you?’ The lady Avelina laughed, and it was not a nice laugh. ‘And there are consequences to that.’
‘What would you know, Barren Wife.’ Bradecote actually stepped back, letting the two women’s mutual loathing crackle like lightning between them.
‘Was Roger FitzGilbert paid well to take you, who had already been “taken”? Did he know? Or was the mewling rat o
f a son a shock so early in the marriage?’
‘Thorold was an eight-month child. He came early to the world, and seemed like not to live, yet he did, however weak it made him. He had that strength, more is the pity.’ The older woman sounded bitter.
‘Aye, and pity for me. Barren Wife you call me, but what wife would not be with a husband like him. I am married to a man who should not even be master here.’
‘No. He is Roger’s son, Roger’s blood. I did not wed until three months after my sister, and Thorold was an eight-month babe, I tell you. Upon the Holy Book I would swear that, as I told Dur—’ She stopped, and blinked at Bradecote as if he had appeared out of nowhere.
‘So Hywel ap Rhodri told Durand he was the rightful lord of Doddenham, did he? True or false, that was a dangerous thing to disclose, and mighty malicious too. Did you and your sister part on bad terms, lady, all those years ago? Did he make the claim out of spite, or revenge?’
‘Both, I dare say. He was his father’s son, and his mother’s also. Between them they spawned a cross between a goat and a serpent, all hungry pizzle and false tongue. Thorold is my son, and the son of Roger FitzGilbert, oft though I have regretted it. And,’ she looked back to her daughter-in-law, ‘if you think Thorold would be glad of an heir of your body, even if through his brother’s loins, think again. Is that why you whine and weep over Durand? Do you fear he might die and leave you unsatisfied, girl?’ A thought hit her. ‘Sweet Virgin, you did not let that Welsh ram tup you, did you? I told Thorold he was a fool to marry you.’
Bradecote had been congratulating himself upon finding out so much, but this was now but one step from a cat fight, and no man with any sense got involved in those. He said nothing, and simply walked out. In the fresh air he heaved a huge sigh of relief, and headed for the gate, just as Thorold FitzRoger trotted in, though there was no sign of his hawker. For a moment Bradecote considered warning him, but then decided if the man could not control either wife or mother he was not much of a man, and besides, he did not like the man. He was more concerned that the tingling handprint on his cheek should not linger enough for Catchpoll to notice.
Meanwhile, Catchpoll had been playing ‘fatherly man of the world’ with Corbin, with regard to women. The lad’s brain was in a whirl, which was ideal for Catchpoll’s purposes. As soon as Bradecote had disappeared into the solar, and the door shut to exclude all others, Catchpoll took Corbin gently by the arm and led him outside to a bench at the side of the hall.
‘Can’t say as you can ever understand ’em, lad, but a wise man learns when the best thing to do is get out of the way. Women!’ He shook his head in mystification.
‘She pushed me out of the way,’ said Corbin, dreamily, though regretfully. He was torn between wishing she had ordered him to bar the door, and thus prove his devotion to her, and the fact that in shoving him through the doorway she had actually touched him. Catchpoll was no fool.
‘Aye, which proves women do not think straight. If that door was to be barred and barred proper, it was you, not she, who could do it. But did the lady think? No, she did not, at least not like a man. They reacts, you see, like a startled horse, all feelings, not thinkings. Must be hard, being in a chamber with two such as the ladies of this hall.’
‘They hates each other. Always picking on her is old lady Matilda, treating her like a child, or a servant, and my lady Avelina is doing so much, tending the lord Durand even in the night.’
‘Doubt that delights her lord much, though, if she leaves his bed to—’
‘The doubt is whether he would notice. The poor lady is much neglected, and what man, what real man, could neglect a lady as beautiful as she is?’ Corbin tried not to think how wonderful the lady Avelina would be curled up beside him, because he was too lowly and unworthy to even sleep like a hound at the foot of her bed, and it was sinful, her being a married lady. On the other hand, thinking about it made him tingle, and he could not imagine actually wanting to waste time in sleeping at all if she were lying there …
Catchpoll read him as easily as he could the trail of a shod horse in soft ground. He let him have his moments of sinful pleasure. What he had not said to Corbin was that in the first flush of manhood, where the body had reached a peak but the mind was yet to lose the impetuosity of the child, the male could be as ‘all feelings’ as the female. Corbin was in just such a state, and Catchpoll knew that to be dangerous. The lad could be manipulated to do things in heat, and without thought to consequences.
‘Has the lord Durand been so sick he needs nursing through the night?’ Catchpoll dragged Corbin’s thoughts reluctantly from the lady Avelina.
‘He has that, poor man. At times he has thrashed about, his mind lost, his body tormented as by a fiend from hell,’ Corbin crossed himself, ‘and I have had to hold him down upon the bed. At others he was so weak I had to lift his head that he might be given the draughts my lady Matilda makes of willow and feverfew. And him such a strong and vital man in health.’ There was a touch of admiration.
‘But yet sometimes he is recovered, and then falls back into sickness?’
‘It is strange, but so. My lady was jubilant when first he improved and could leave his bed, though weak, but the lady Matilda was watchful, and refused to give thanks for deliverance.’
‘Well, she has the years to have seen such things and know, where the younger lady would not.’
‘She was right, the lady Matilda. For some days he seemed upon the road to health, even ate within the hall when—And then of a sudden he was as bad as before.’
Catchpoll noted the omission of any mention of Hywel ap Rhodri and thought it time to introduce the name.
‘When the Welshmen were here, so I heard.’ It was worth seeing how Corbin reacted. He made no denial, perhaps eased by thinking the knowledge already in the open. ‘Never trusted the Welsh, myself,’ he added.
‘Never met many before they came. “Riddian”, that was the servant’s name; he seemed decent enough, not that you could get much from him, but …’ Corbin’s face clouded.
‘But …?’ Catchpoll waited, patiently, as the fisherman who has the fish investigating the bait.
‘He was a bastard, lordly or not, that Hywel ab Roddy, who thought anything in a skirt was his.’ Corbin’s hands clenched into fists.
‘Well, the lady Matilda wears a skirt, but I doubt he would have gone that far. A man would need to be lost of mind to fancy a woman of her ilk.’ Catchpoll wanted any hint of whether Hywel had sniffed about the skirts of the lady Avelina, and thought this might get an indirect answer.
‘No, he liked them young,’ Corbin growled, and for a moment there was no youth, but man, revolted as Walkelin had been revolted. ‘I am glad he is dead, by whatever means.’ It was almost a cry.
‘Not just a pat on the behind and a stolen kiss type, then?’ Catchpoll knew all too well Hywel’s ‘type’.
Corbin just shook his head, brows gathered, a muscle moving in his cheek. Had he seen? Had he intervened? If Corbin had seen his cousin speechless, had heard that Aldith, the girl he grew up beside, had struck out at Hywel ap Rhodri to defend her honour, might he have acted if he saw the wench Winfraeth being molested? Was that what she was holding back? Such simple folk as these might not be certain that killing a man caught in the act of rape would not be a crime, just as with the man caught stealing the chickens or the scrip of coin. Killing him after, now that was different, and Catchpoll had no idea which might have occurred.
Bradecote found Catchpoll and Walkelin leaning against the east wall of the church, out of the sun.
‘You look like the lord Sheriff when he has heard how much tax we have collected,’ declared Catchpoll, grinning.
‘Well, that may be good or bad, depending on whether it is enough.’
‘Never enough, my lord, you can be sure of that, but usually enough to keep him in a decent humour. I take it the solar proved useful.’
‘I certainly learnt much, within it and without, though where it ta
kes us is as yet unclear. Have you discoveries also?’
‘Aye, my lord, but let us see how they sits with yours.’ Catchpoll moved to the side, thus creating a space for the undersheriff to join them in the shade.
‘Well, some things were already guessed. The two ladies of the manor hate each other to the point where, when I left, it was a toss-up as to whether they might be found by Thorold FitzRoger brawling on the hall floor.’
‘Then my money would be on the older dame,’ laughed Catchpoll.
‘Agreed. The lady Avelina dotes upon Durand, but not the way his mother does, just as the priest said, and that lady even made the suggestion that the lady Avelina might have let Hywel have his way with her too, out of excess of desire.’
‘Or the fact that her lord is not up to the task, as young Corbin told me,’ interjected Catchpoll. ‘I would guess that was common knowledge in the manor.’
‘Well, what I got from Durand was interesting. He is not a well man, it takes no physician to see that, and looks weak at present, but his head is not as confused as he, or his mother, tries to make out. I doubt he could walk or ride far this day, but he could think straight and fast enough. He admitted only to meeting Hywel ap Rhodri at dinner the first night, and claimed he knew nothing of the man’s manner with women, of any rank. That was a lie written over his vellum cheeks and in his narrowed eyes.’
‘Which means if he and the lady Avelina are … entangled, and he thought the Welshman had been taking the “rights” he had in turn taken from his brother, he has a motive for murder,’ murmured Walkelin.
‘He does, though whether his ailing on the second night was real or feigned, we do not know. If he did not kill him, he might have had Corbin do it, upon the pretence the man had insulted the lady, though he denied either, firmly.’
‘It would work, my lord, as a trail of events. If the lady has been playing false with the brother …’ Catchpoll scratched at his beard.
‘But there is a hole in this bucket, Catchpoll.’ Bradecote frowned. ‘Durand FitzRoger must be nigh on thirty, and has been in the employ of Gilbert de Clare some years. I doubt he has lived here since his brother’s marriage. The lady Avelina is not many years over a score, at a guess, and from one of the lady Matilda’s insults, Thorold took not a child bride, but rather a woman grown to beauty, and has therefore wed since Durand left the manor.’
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