‘I have never considered it.’
‘Not even when a messenger to the Empress’s chief supporter slept within this hall? Come. Your lady mother knows, and your brother knows, so do not tell me you were never aware that Hywel ap Rhodri carried a message from Madog ap Maredudd to the Earl Robert. Why would they hide such information from you, even if you did not hear it from the man himself.’ Bradecote turned to the lady Avelina. ‘Did he tell you to impress you, lady?’
‘He did not impress me.’
‘Then why were you so upset to hear of his death? And if he did not impress you, why did you stand in his embrace in the hazel coppice?’
The eyes of the other two people present became fixed on the lady Avelina. Her fingers intertwined, and moved, nervously.
‘I did not.’
‘You were seen.’
At that she looked up, and her face grew very pale.
‘Do not look so shocked, Durand. What she would do with you, she would do with anyone.’ The lady Matilda sneered at them both from across the chamber.
‘He must have been quite persuasive, after the maid made her complaint.’ Bradecote’s voice was almost admiring. ‘You said that you “forgave” him. What a clever idea, to tell husband and … brother, that he had admitted his sin and you were shocked, and then slip away with him. Is that when you also revealed to Durand that he was an envoy?’
‘She never told me that. My mother did,’ cried Durand.
‘At last we hear some word of truth.’ Bradecote turned back to Durand FitzRoger. ‘You did know he was going to Earl Robert. That takes me back to my first question. What would getting your hands on that message win you?’
‘I never saw a message, nor did I kill him. How many times must I tell you?’
‘Many, and with reasons.’
‘A sick man—’ the lady Matilda began, but was interrupted.
‘A sick man, or a woman, need only employ someone else to use the knife, a person malleable enough to their will through habit, devotion, call it what you will. Undoubtedly, whoever killed Hywel ap Rhodri had help afterwards, in moving bodies and horses. I think it is Rhydian’s death that rankles with me, you know. After all, his only crime was to be the servant of a murdering rapist.’
‘Murdering …?’ the lady Avelina breathed.
‘Yes, he was. It appears he was known to the women of the court in Mathrafal as a man who seduced, but also forced. However, coming over the border he ceased to worry about concealment. At Bromyard he murdered and raped, in that order, a decent woman who fought for her honour. Since then he has attacked at least three women, if you can count the child Milburga as a woman. Aldith got off lightly, and probably lives because he was so reckless as to assault her within the manor buildings.’
‘Holy Mary,’ the lady Avelina crossed herself, and then stood, shakily, went to the door, and was heard running through the hall.
‘May he rot like his father.’ The lady Matilda crossed herself also. Bradecote was watching Durand, who looked shocked, but more in surprise than revulsion, and, thought Bradecote, grimly, more at the revelation about the lady Avelina and her meeting with Hywel ap Rhodri.
‘Rhydian, a man who spoke almost no English, and was described as “faithful unto death”, had no part in all that. He did not deserve to die, but then, so many victims of murder do not deserve to die.’
‘You would punish a man for ridding the world of one whom you would have hanged?’ The lady Matilda was still thinking of master not servant.
‘Well, since the murderer did not know what we know, yes. They killed him for what he carried, or out of jealousy, but not because of his crimes, and besides, have you ever watched what happens to a man convicted of rape and of murder? A quick death by the knife was better than he deserved.’
She actually nodded in agreement at that, and said no more.
‘For all that you say, I deny it still. I did not kill, nor have killed, either Welshman.’ Durand spoke slowly, pressing home his innocence.
‘We will find out if that is true, or not, for ourselves.’ Bradecote walked out, and at the door of the hall, passed the lady of the manor retching.
Catchpoll was out of the sun, though it was warm in the kitchen, and the cook, who eventually divulged her name as Hild, had beads of sweat upon her brow as she sliced onions into the pottage that would be the evening meal for the majority. Milburga, returned from washing duties, was turning the spit on which three fowls were in the early stages of roasting. She had spared Catchpoll one swift glance as he entered, and shrunk closer to the hearth fire as if cold. To begin with Catchpoll ignored her, as she undoubtedly wished. At least, he seemed to ignore her, quietly drawing the cook from cool wariness into an exchange of cooking tips that he would forget long before Mistress Catchpoll would have him at her hearth, in fact probably as soon as he left the kitchen. However, by dint of recalling some trick his beloved wife had with the herbs in a fish stew, he wormed his way into Hild the Cook’s good graces, and was accounted worthy to hear her views upon everything from bran poultices to the massed failings of the male of the species who numbered less than two score years.
‘No wonder the lady Matilda treats them both as if they were having their noses wiped for them. They squabble like five-year-olds, and,’ she dropped her voice to a dark whisper, ‘I would swear the lord Durand makes eyes at the lady Avelina just to spite his elder brother. Neither could abide the other to have a thing they did not possess also, and many is the time the lady Matilda took from the both of them, and took a birch twig to their backsides. Not,’ she added, with a blush, ‘that she uses that particular punishment now they are meant to be men grown.’
‘Ah, but men do not appreciate their mothers fussing over them.’ Catchpoll shook his head as if that were a failing too. ‘I hardly think the lord Durand has enjoyed being tied to his bed with his mother standing over him with potions and commands to drink this, and inhale that.’
‘She has a good head for remedies, has the lady, I will give her that, but no, I doubt he has. Always on the move he was, when young, and hardly better now. She told him, she did, to take things slow, but the moment the fever left him he was up and about and trying to do too much, and lo, he was back and moaning something wicked within three days. Glad I am he is on the mend proper now, though. His appetite is like a man starved, and I have been sending bowls refilled I know not how often this week. I only wonder he has not looked so strong when up and about, but mayhap he is taking the care he failed to do before, eh?’
‘Attending his mother, aye, having learnt the hard way.’ Catchpoll glanced quite openly at Milburga. ‘I’ve a granddaughter her age, and a useful girl about her mother’s kitchen too. Fine chance we would have to see her roasting three birds on a spit, unless it was sparrows out the eaves!’ He nodded at the spit. ‘For the high table, I suppose?’ He kept the run of the chatter culinary, but had brought the girl in.
‘Of course. What would we be a-doing with fowl roasting and this not a high feast day? Lucky we are then to have the bones for soup and a sliver each with our meal. Mind you, I cooks the livers and adds them to our pottage, and the high table do not even think of what there is besides the meat upon the bones. Milburga here is learning, for there is an art to spit cooking, though you would not think it. Turning too fast is common, and turning too slow so as it burns is too obvious afterwards, when them in the hall sends complaint. She is a good girl, my niece, a good girl.’ At which the cook seemed suddenly overcome, and dabbed at her eyes with the corner of her apron.
‘Does it make you hungry, the smell of roasting fowl?’ Catchpoll finally addressed the girl.
She did not look at him, but, after a moment, nodded. Deep down, Catchpoll felt the anger that had filled Walkelin. Catchpoll’s granddaughter was laughing and lively, not a wan ghost like Milburga.
Aldith came into the kitchen. Catchpoll noticed the slight flush to her skin, the brightness of her eyes, and the way she veiled them with her
lids.
‘Washing’ll be dry within another half-hour − that first tubbing, at least,’ she said, casually.
‘And what kept you so long? I was going to get you to fetch me some wild garlic from the edge of Small Wood to rub on them birds, and they is too far cooked to add it now.’
Aldith, the Aldith who slapped the faces of lecherous lords, who spoke up before the undersheriff, mumbled something inarticulate, and coloured.
‘Well, I could make a sauce with mushrooms, if you go off now and get some from where you found them three days past. Not the big ones, mind, nice and small and flavoursome is what I want. Off with you, now.’
Aldith went without demur, and Hild the Cook watched her with a sapient eye.
‘Hmm.’ She might have said more, but for the lord Thorold’s hawker entering with a drake in his hand.
‘Here, mistress, she brought down this bird for you, she did.’ He spoke of the hawk as if a friend.
‘Not for my lord?’ Hild smiled at him.
‘Not for him. He likes to watch, and feel he has command of her, but she has her own mind, and it is her skill. And you have the skill with the duck when it is for the table, so I reckons as you, ladies both, are in league.’
‘Flatterer.’ Hild blushed and clucked, hen-like, then took the bird from his grasp. ‘Pity there is but the one, but a fine bird.’
‘Strael brought down the mallard when we had hardly started, really, but then the lord Thorold lost interest, and sent me back with it. He has other things upon his mind, I suppose, and rode off upon a loose rein, frowning.’
The sunlight was dappled among the trees, and Aldith hummed to herself as she picked the mushrooms. It was not a task that took thought, and she had much better things to think about just at the moment. Her reverie lasted until her little basket was full, and then she began to retrace her steps. She wondered if any of the spread-out washing was dry, and diverted her path. Corbin was still there, lying asleep on his side. She pursed her lips. She had to get back to her work, but Corbin felt he could lie in the sun. She relaxed into a smile. At least he had something better to dwell on than being put upon by his lord, but if he lingered, he would be berated for his absence. She walked towards him, the basket of mushrooms on her hip.
They fell to the ground as she screamed.
Chapter Fourteen
Catchpoll nearly knocked over the cooking pot as he turned to the door, moving surprisingly fast for a man of his age. The cook stood open-mouthed, and her spoon fell upon the floor.
Bradecote had been in the gatehouse, whence he had gone to think quietly, and was both younger and longer of leg. The source of the screams was not difficult to locate, although they had changed from terror to cries for assistance. He saw Aldith, on her knees, and beside a body. Only when he reached her did he see who it was.
‘Help him,’ she cried, rocking to and fro.
Bradecote was not sure that he could. Corbin looked as good as dead, and there was a bleeding wound to the head.
‘Grab that washing and bring it here.’ It would get the girl out of the way for a moment while he decided whether they needed a bandage or a shroud. He rolled Corbin gently onto his back and placed his hand upon his chest. Was it still moving? He leant so that his ear pressed to it. He thought he heard the beat of a heart, but was it his own thumping?
‘Be alive, Corbin,’ he commanded, more in hope than expectation.
‘Is … he … dead?’ Catchpoll managed to gasp as he leant, hands upon knees and head down, struggling to get enough air into his own lungs.
‘I do not know.’ Bradecote raised his head. ‘There is a lot of blood.’
‘Head wounds always bleed as if forever, my lord. You have seen such.’
‘Yes, but he neither moves nor groans.’
‘Depends how long ago he was hit. Mayhap his brains are addled by the blow. Here, let me try.’ Catchpoll knelt with a groan of his own, and placed his hands either side of the neck.
‘You think his neck is broken?’
‘No, but when you’re dead the blood does not move. A dead body does not bleed like a living one, the bleeding stops, otherwise all the blood in the body would leak out of the hole of the wound. Physicians know about blood, and what it does. I just knows without it you die, and I think when you are alive it trembles in the vessels, which must be so it does not thicken and congeal, which it does when it comes outside. When you die it thickens, and grows heavy and sinks towards the ground, from which we come and to where we return. Once it does that it does not move again, which is why we sees the darker patches on bodies that have been in one position some time. Blood must tremble in the vessels, and if there is a wound and it leaks out, then more blood comes to fill the empty part. I can feel it with my fingers, like a heartbeat in his neck, and the bleeding is not quite stopped, neither. He is with us yet, but ask me not how long.’
Aldith, sobbing, returned with arms full of washing. Without a thought, Bradecote ripped a length from a cloth, tearing it with teeth and then strong hands, folded part into a pad and wound the rest about the head.
‘We will carry him on the largest cloth. Lay it beside him, Aldith.’
She obeyed, bosom heaving, hands trembling. The two men lifted Corbin’s inert form onto the linen.
‘Now go to the fields and fetch Brictmer, and the priest also.’
‘The—he is dying?’
‘I do not know. We will take him to the steward’s house. Run, girl.’
She ran. Bradecote and Catchpoll looked at each other, and lifted their bleeding burden.
‘What was he doing here, with drying washing?’ wondered Bradecote.
‘It was not the washing but the washer, that attracted him,’ Catchpoll said, jerking his head after Aldith.
‘She was here, here when …?’ Bradecote was confused.
‘She was here a while back, laying out the washing. He came to her, not by design I would say from the language of body. He was hunched, miserable. I would guess he sought a bit of comfort, and someone to talk to.’ He grinned, despite all. ‘Words wasn’t needed when I stopped watching. There’s some things we need not see.’ The smile faded. ‘She came into the kitchen about an hour since, a little bright of eye, and was sent to find mushrooms by the cook. There’s mushrooms scattered about, so we know she found them.’
‘And she is distraught, really distraught, so she could not have … No, that would be madness.’
‘What happened between those two was willing on both parts, unplanned but willing. She was a bit dazed, but happy, when I saw her the last. She’s a girl who would fight for her honour if any tried to take it, but she gave it, and no doubt left him lying in bliss.’
‘So who hit him, and hit him to kill him?’
‘Someone who was afraid, my lord, afraid he would get as we wanted − flustered − and crack.’
‘But I was in the solar, with Durand and the two women, for much of the last hour, and only went to the gatehouse, which was empty, to think, and but a few minutes before the scream.’
‘It would take but a few minutes to be out here, and back again.’
‘For a man who has been ailing? Perhaps. Thorold I let go hawking, so …’
‘He sent hawk and man back, with a duck, and went riding, preoccupied, if the hawker is to be believed, and I see no reason he should not be.’
Bradecote’s eyes narrowed.
‘Preoccupied with what, I wonder?’
‘My thoughts too, though we cannot exclude the others just yet.’
They reached Brictmer’s door, and Bradecote fumbled the cloth into one hand to nudge up the latch. The chamber was dark, a little stale, and, for all the little that it contained, lacking in neatness. A broom stood in one corner, but the ground was strewn with bits of hay stalk and a thin vestige of having had rushes upon it. At one end was the bed, a wide, low wooden cot with a lumpy palliasse upon it, and a rough blanket. They laid Corbin upon it, as Brictmer and Aldith arrived, with
Walkelin, and followed, breathless, by Father Dunstan.
‘My boy,’ cried Brictmer, in anguish, and came forward, hands outstretched.
‘What do we do?’ Aldith had a voice now, and a desperate calm. Her eyes were wide, and her fingers trembled, but she could function.
‘We clean the wound and bind it better than I could do at the first.’ Bradecote also thought if the skull were broken they might see, and guess the outcome, but did not say it before father and love.
‘And yarrow,’ muttered Brictmer, to himself. ‘My wife always used yarrow on wounds, for healing.’
Catchpoll thought that rather hopeful, but agreed.
‘I will fetch the water,’ announced Walkelin, seeing no other task he could perform.
Father Dunstan knelt at the foot of the bed, to pray.
‘Wait, Walkelin, before you bring the pail, see what horses are in the stable.’ Bradecote threw him a meaningful glance.
‘Yes, my lord.’
Brictmer, looking down at his only remaining son’s pale face, reached for the hand of Aldith beside him.
‘Surely it is not a judgement?’ he mumbled, and Catchpoll wondered.
Bradecote began to unwind the bandage, but was almost shoved out of the way by Aldith.
‘Let me … my lord.’ Her fingers were the more deft, though he wondered how she would react to the wound. There was a sharp intake of breath for sure, but she neither swooned nor wept. With her initial shock over, Aldith would not weep, not unless, or until, the worst happened. She dabbed at the blood that had spread into his hair.
Bradecote, peering as best he could in the poor light, saw no whiteness of bone, which he thought a good sign, nor did the wound sag inward at her touch. Walkelin returned with water, and a nod of having done as he was told, and the wound was bathed. What was clear was a gash, straight but not blade narrow, not a splitting of skin.
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