‘Me? Why? It seems your mind does wander into fantasy, after all. You might be right, Mother, he is a sick man still, brain-sick.’
‘Stop this, the both of you. You bicker like spoilt children, and this matter is not childish. Throwing accusations at each other is both dangerous and madness, and I will not have it.’
‘Then help him pack.’ Thorold FitzRoger shrugged, and turned away.
‘You will attend to me, Thorold.’ Her voice commanded.
‘Do you know, I do not think I shall. I have let you delude yourself, even submitted to you, for the sake of a little peace, but it ends now. This is not your manor, but mine. You will remember that or find solace in a house of nuns.’
There came a slightly hysterical laugh from up above, where the lady Avelina was knelt at the top of the stair, listening. Thorold looked up, and his lip curled in derision.
‘And a nunnery would be the best place for you, my lady wife, to learn to curb your lustful appetites. I hear some are quite strict.’
Outside, beneath the still open shutter, Walkelin did not laugh, but he smiled, and just for once that smile had echoes of Serjeant Catchpoll’s.
Chapter Twelve
The smile was still on Walkelin’s face when he came up to his superiors.
‘I was coming from the stables, where I think I have worked something out, and passed the solar. Not a happy family in this manor, I will say. Brother is against brother, and son against mother.’
‘You listened. Good lad.’ Catchpoll praised him.
‘The lord Thorold has told his brother he wants him out of the manor tomorrow. He does not think his brother at death’s door any more than we do, and repeatedly asked him why he had killed Hywel ap Rhodri.’
‘He did?’ Bradecote looked at Catchpoll, and then back at Walkelin, who was a little disappointed at the reception to his news.
‘Yes, my lord. He wants him gone to prevent shame upon the manor. He is also very aware that the lady Avelina and his brother have …’ Walkelin blushed, ‘been sinning in the past. Adultery is a sin, but with a brother’s wife it must be even worse.’
‘Leave morality to priests, lad, and carry on. What else?’
‘The lord Durand kept denying it − the murder not the adultery, that is. The lady Matilda tried to intervene, to say the lord Durand could not leave yet, but the lord Thorold would have none of it. He even threatened her with a nunnery, and said he would no longer let her pretend she controlled the manor. He was very firm.’
‘Well, that throws our latest thinking back in our faces.’
‘My lord?’
‘What the lord Bradecote means is that we had just decided that Thorold FitzRoger is the one most likely to have killed Hywel ap Rhodri.’
‘Ah.’
‘I could think of other things to say,’ sighed Bradecote.
‘But I may cheer you with what I have discovered about the horse, my lord.’
‘You have found it?’ Bradecote brightened.
‘Er, no, not yet, but in the stable the straw had been disturbed in that empty stall. I …’ Walkelin looked a little sheepish, ‘looked carefully. It was pretty good and clean yesterday, bar one heap of fresh, and it had not been mucked out by today. My guess is what with haymaking and us about, it had been forgot. Today that old muck had been trampled into the straw and there was more. To my thinking, you would not leave the horse out, alone and tethered, not at night. The risk that it would become panicked and either break the tether or get twisted up in it is too great, so the horse was brought in last night, which keeps it safe, and removed after dawn. Once they know we are in that hall for the night, there is little risk. Therefore, at the very worst, we find the horse here, late this evening.’
‘Good work, Walkelin, and good reasoning,’ Bradecote commended. ‘But I would like that horse found earlier, if possible. There must be a limited number of places within the manor’s bounds where it might be.’
‘And it cannot be Corbin as took the animal this morning, my lord,’ added Catchpoll. ‘He was in the solar until everyone stirred. My guess is it was Brictmer, but he is simply the most likely.’
‘So do I watch, or do I search, Serjeant?’
‘Better off searching. As the lord Bradecote says, it will be within the manor, hobbled behind a thicket, or some building. The ground is hard, which aids you not at all, but the only horse I know out within the manor right now is a big mare taken to the pease field border. If you find fresh heaps of “evidence” elsewhere, it may be the sign you wants.’
‘I thought as the life of a serjeant’s apprentice would be hunting lawbreakers, not horse dung.’ Walkelin shook his red head sadly, but his eyes danced.
‘The advantage with horse dung is it does not move, and it does not try and kill you, so be glad it is that you hunt. Get on with you.’ Catchpoll clapped him on the back, and, as he set off out of the bailey, his serjeant watched approvingly. ‘Did the right thing there, my lord. I’ll make a serjeant of him yet. He has the ferreting brain, but what he needs to do now is learn how to act the serjeant, look the serjeant, and feel the serjeant. Doing things on his own helps that.’
‘So why do you keep him feeling “the apprentice” when with you, Catchpoll?’
‘Because, my lord, he must not think he has mastered his craft too easily or too early.’ The wily serjeant paused, and then surprised Bradecote with a confession. ‘I nearly got myself killed about his stage, walking into a situation I thought I could handle, when cool sense would have told me to hang back and wait.’
‘It is hard to imagine, Catchpoll.’
‘What, my lord, me making a mistake, or me being young?’
‘Both. Now, from what Walkelin overheard, do we put Durand back alongside his brother as a suspect?’
‘Cannot but do so, my lord. There was three of them arguing, and setting up such a thing in order to be overheard sounds most difficult and unlikely. Thorold FitzRoger cannot have known young Walkelin would be under that shutter. It sounds as if it happened natural, so why would the man accuse his brother if the brother knows himself innocent? What does it achieve?’
‘Would it persuade the lady Matilda?’
‘Well, if he thought it might at the start, he did not by the time he threatened her with the cloister.’
‘So we return to Durand being much better than he looks, or rather better two weeks past, and killing Hywel ap Rhodri himself, or getting Corbin to do it, and using the lad to clear up afterwards. So where are Rhydian and the grey?’
Catchpoll’s face contorted into an expression of total mystification.
Walkelin liked working independently, although a fear of disappointing his mentor, and the lord Undersheriff, still clouded his blue sky of contentment. He had a task, and one which was both simple, yet not necessarily easy. He had seen Corbin about the bailey, emptying the midden bucket, giving Aldith a hand with water from the well, which she accepted whilst indicating she was perfectly strong enough to do the task herself. She was a good-looking girl in her way, but not the sort to catch his fancy. He liked a girl to think him the one who would protect her, and Aldith was not only the sort who protected herself, she even looked as if she would stand before her man in any risky situation, with a household implement to hand, and threaten violence, thus robbing him of any chance to look heroic. His own Eluned would be more the shrinking sort, giving full rein to his masculinity. If she had not given ‘full rein to his masculinity’ in other departments it was because she was a decent maid, who thought wooing was not a wink and a few sweet words. He sighed, and concentrated upon the task in hand.
He began outside the palisade, and did a quick circuit of the perimeter, in case it had been thought clever to leave the manor buildings by other than the track between the simple hovels of the village. For a moment he wondered if the horse might even have been put inside one of these dwellings, since livestock and family often shared one space, but rarely anything that big. The steward could not hav
e it, since it was possible they, the sheriff’s men, might go to him there, and the church and priest’s house were not to be considered. Most other homes were low and small. The wheelwright’s workshop was too noisy and had too much of a smell of burning. A horse would be in a sweat of nerves if left there. He looked at all the other buildings. No, there would be no horse within, and he had soon been about the outsides. He went next to the fields. The draught mare was cropping the grass by the pease field, and Walkelin had an idea. He was quite observant, but a horse would sense another horse before he did, and if he was really lucky, one would whinny to the other. It did occur to him for one moment that if the man-at-arms returned there would be a panic over a stolen horse, but he told himself this was in the way of him doing his duty as best possible, so went to the mare, who blew through her velvety nose at him and shook flies from her haunches. A bulky horse could not go everywhere, but then if the brown was concealed, it had to be where it could forage, and not be unable to move. He untethered the mare, clicked his tongue encouragingly, and led her, slowly, along the field boundary to an area of scrubby trees and bramble thickets, keeping one eye upon her ears and nostrils, and one on the lookout for himself.
The odd pairing wandered, a little aimlessly, until Walkelin was certain that this area of the manor contained no hidden horse, and then passed along the edge of the wheat field, showing signs of summer ripening. Here, between the grain and the meadow that was cut for hay, stood the hazel coppice where Winfraeth had suffered under Hywel ap Rhodri. Walkelin chastised himself. If Corbin was helping with the hay, then it was most sensible to have left the horse here, so that he might check upon it during the day without wasting too much time, and without drawing attention to himself. He advanced, keeping back from the border nearer the haymakers. The mare blew down her nose, and her head came up. At the same time Walkelin heard a voice, a gentle, male voice, soothing. He let all but the end of the halter rope loose and edged forward, but the mare followed him anyway, and stealth was not her strong point. He stepped into a small clearing as Corbin turned, his face showing alarm that was instantly replaced with a question.
‘What are you doing with Claefre?’
‘And what are you doing with Hywel ap Rhodri’s white-stockinged brown? Has it too got a name now?’
Corbin stood very still. Walkelin could almost hear his thoughts.
‘Well, saying “what horse?” is foolish, and so is thinking either that you can drop me, or run away. Oh, and if you think of galloping off bareback, best to remember the horse is still hobbled. You can loosen those now, though, because we are going back to the manor to see what the lord Bradecote has to say. He will be pleased with me, but I am not at all sure that he will be pleased with you.’ Walkelin sounded very calm and reasonable, hiding the excitement he felt at success. ‘I do not need to draw my sword now, do I?’
Walkelin walked into the courtyard with barely a hint of swagger, which he knew would have Serjeant Catchpoll cuffing him about the ear for being cocky. The girl Milburga was carrying washing out to the drying ground, her feet bare and wet from trampling the washing in the butt, but did not look up as they passed her. For a moment the serjeant’s apprentice was worried that both Serjeant Catchpoll and the lord Bradecote were elsewhere, and he would be facing an angry lord of the manor without support. However, he called the serjeant’s name but once and the man himself appeared from the kitchen, where he had been making the cook feel important.
‘What do we have here, then, young Walkelin?’ asked Catchpoll, grinning.
‘Hywel ap Rhodri’s horse, Serjeant,’ declared Walkelin with a little pride.
‘Then best you leave that mare in the stable and go and run to the church, where I think the lord Undersheriff has gone to speak with Father Dunstan.’
Walkelin obeyed eagerly, leaving Corbin, looking rather forlorn, and holding the brown horse in the middle of the courtyard. Walkelin returned, or rather followed the long legs of the undersheriff, who came only just short of running. Bradecote, who had failed to find the priest, looked jubilant.
‘The hidden horse. At last. Well done, Walkelin. Now, I want everyone from the field, however much they grumble about the hay.’
‘Yes, my lord.’ Walkelin departed, almost at the double.
‘Catchpoll, all within the manor walls, and remember the sleeping man-at-arms. There can be none who do not see, do not face us now.’ Bradecote sounded formal, hard. Catchpoll knew the terse command was not aimed at him, but for the consumption of those that heard it.
‘Immediately, my lord.’ He could play that game.
Bradecote was left standing in the courtyard, with Corbin holding the horse, which looked the only thing present at ease. It lipped at his sleeve, and the big eyes were almost soulful. The few already in the bailey shuffled their feet. Those within the manor buildings emerged into the sunshine, blinking, the cook with her hands floured, the maidservants with sleeves rolled from washing day. Father Dunstan had been with the haymakers, and his habit was tucked up so that skinny white calves contrasted with the dark cloth of his habit. Thorold FitzRoger came, looking angry, his mother regal, his brother sick and his wife worried. Brictmer the Steward came at the head of those from the haymaking, his brow furrowed. They gathered in silence, not born of respect, or even fear, just blankness.
‘This,’ Bradecote pointed at the horse, melodramatically, ‘is the horse of Hywel ap Rhodri, the murdered envoy of the Prince of Powys. It gives the lie to the man having left here with his servant and meeting his death thereafter. You all of you know the Welshman died here, and at least a good proportion know how his body was disposed of. Your silence is a lie.’ He spoke in English.
‘He was a lecher,’ cried Aldith, her head high in defiance.
‘He was Welsh,’ came a voice from among the villagers.
‘Neither of which is a reason for murder,’ growled Catchpoll, surveying the assembly like a wolf selecting the weakest in a flock. Bradecote thought it ironic that it was Catchpoll who denied the man’s blood as a reason for killing, after all his grumbles and patent dislike.
‘You cannot persist in saying “it is nothing to do with us”. The proof stands upon four legs before you.’ Bradecote’s voice was ‘Authority’.
‘All right, stop this show. You may sound big to your men, but you do not to us.’ Thorold FitzRoger was white-lipped. ‘The horse was left in payment.’ In contrast to Bradecote, he spoke in Norman-French.
‘You are saying Hywel ap Rhodri walked from this manor?’ Bradecote’s disbelief was patent. Unconsciously, he changed his language.
‘No, he rode the pony. The servant walked.’ FitzRoger sighed. ‘He came to me, and he agreed his behaviour was an offence against me and this manor. He said as the horse would be in payment and he would buy another in Worcester.’
‘If his duty was to take the Prince of Powys’s message to Earl Robert of Gloucester, why did he not say he would buy a beast in Worcester as he returned, and hand over one of the two as he passed on his way back?’ This time Bradecote reverted to what all might understand, though it did not alter FitzRoger’s words.
‘Because I did not give him the option. I said I did not trust him, trust his word, and if his “duty” meant so much, why did he remain here two whole days when he might have travelled after a night of rest?’
‘But he made no denial of the maids?’
‘No. He said …’ Thorold looked directly at Aldith, who stared back, as if daring him to speak. The question meant she knew what he must speak about, but his response was in a tongue alien to her. ‘He said women were unimportant, and the fault lay within them. He agreed it breached my hospitality, and ultimately that the horse would remain.’
‘He agreed to that? Why?’
‘Because I said he would not leave at all if he tried to keep it. I said I would let them have him.’ He pointed, accusingly, at the folk of his manor, who looked back sullenly, with no idea of what he said.
‘The
m? What happened to “us” of a moment back?’
‘“Us” is …’ Thorold waved his hand vaguely behind him, where mother, wife and brother stood. The lady Matilda looked at her son as if he was mad.
‘They are not “us” but “ours”, as the land is ours. They are not just “them”.’ Her voice reprimanded.
Bradecote did not think it much of an improvement, because it sounded too possessive. He held Bradecote, which was ‘his land’ that he would defend to the death, and the people were ‘his’ people, but he was ‘their’ lord. There was an impossible to define mutuality to it that was lacking here.
‘And the people here,’ Bradecote avoided ‘your’, ‘know why the horse is here still?’
‘Yes.’
‘And why the lies? Why all the pretending? The man was dangerous with women. Why not say how he was, tell us yesterday?’
‘It was our business. It has no connection with the death. There is none here.’
‘No, that I do not believe, FitzRoger. The manner of man that he was is relevant to his death, I am certain of it.’ Bradecote swung round to face the crowd, a crowd trying to work out the answers from the questions only. ‘The law does not say you can act upon your own when it has been broken. Your lord says that this horse was left by Hywel ap Rhodri, who left upon his servant’s pony, with the servant walking. Neither reached Worcester and we have one body only. There is more here, and we will find it out. We will. You can aid us, or obstruct us. It is your choice, but the law does not take well to obstruction.’
‘The law is only here, my lord, because the man who died was a prince’s man, important. The law − your law − is not interested in us.’ Aldith spoke up.
‘No. When we went to see the body that was discovered, we knew nothing of who it was. We do not say “this person looks unimportant, so just bury them and forget”.’ He countered her, but did not berate her for daring to speak. He looked at her, looked into her, and saw a young woman taut as a bowstring, full of anger and also of fear. The man who might have harmed her was dead, so what did she fear? His instinct said her fear was for Corbin, the companion of childhood, the youth becoming man who tested his unfurling emotions on the unattainable. She was perhaps not even as old in years, but she was more mature. Unconsciously, she was waiting.
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