‘Something with weight, but not a stone. Something that has an edge to it, but not steel. A sword would have cloven the skull, and the cut is broader than a knife. That is my guess.’ Catchpoll declared.
‘Bind the wound, keep him warm, for his skin is cool, and sit by. There is nothing more we can do,’ Bradecote commanded.
‘And pray,’ added the priest.
‘Yes, assuredly, pray hard,’ Bradecote agreed.
‘But it was not murder,’ muttered Brictmer to himself, Bradecote took him by the sleeve.
‘Tell us now, and tell us all, because we need to find out who did this and why.’
Brictmer just stared at him, and Bradecote realised that, for the moment, the man’s mind held only the thought that his son would die.
‘Catchpoll, Walkelin.’ Both followed him out of the cottage.
‘The lord Thorold’s horse is gone.’ Walkelin had, understandably, been thinking the culprit might have ridden away.
‘More that it has not come back, Walkelin.’ Bradecote explained what had happened.
Catchpoll turned towards the manor entrance at the sound of a horse arriving at a brisk trot.
The horse that entered under the gateway was sweating, and so was its rider, but he was smiling also. Walkelin’s jaw dropped.
‘How in the name of all the saints did you get here, now?’ Catchpoll stared at the smiling face of Rhys ap Iorwerth.
‘Pleased to see me, are you? The Earl Robert was at Tewkesbury, see, and the road was good. I managed to get back to Worcester last eve. The castle cook has a fine Welsh wife who bakes the—’
‘Yes, we know about Nesta, Drogo’s Welsh wife. But you were not rushing back to her cakes.’ Catchpoll did not want a tale of cooking.
‘No, no. I wanted to be by here, as I promised. Would have been here sooner had the horse not cast a shoe.’
‘To make sure we do things right.’ Catchpoll did not look pleased, and Rhys raised a placating hand.
‘To do my prince’s bidding. I have seen nothing, nothing I tell you, that I would say to Madog ap Maredudd shows lack of care over finding out who killed his man.’
‘Yes, well best you get off that poor beast before it collapses under you, and come with us. We need to speak.’ Bradecote caught the eye of a man-at-arms honing a blade in a desultory fashion. ‘You. Take the Prince of Powys’s envoy’s horse, and see it rubbed down and watered.’ He commanded and was obeyed.
‘There’s grand,’ murmured Rhys the Interpreter, as he handed the reins to the man, who bowed his head, just in case the Welshman was really as important as the undersheriff described him. Rhys grinned at Bradecote, but got no smile in response, and his face clouded. ‘Oh dear. I am not going to like what I hear, am I.’ It was a statement.
‘No.’ Catchpoll’s answer was bald.
‘That bad?’
‘Yes.’
‘Duw! He has not killed again?’ There was no smile left on Rhys ap Iorwerth’s face.
‘No, but nearly as bad, so come where we can tell you.’ Bradecote was not displeased to see the Welshman, but he did not want to discuss events in the manor bailey.
They went to the shadows cast beyond the gate, and before the end of the tale, Rhys was on his knees.
‘It seems impossible to believe a man could … and yet I know it to be true. It is ashamed I am, ashamed, for I sat at table with this man, laughed with him, and beneath it all … Are you sure he … I mean …’
‘He took the village girl by force, in revenge for her seeing him with the lady Avelina. The child Milburga has not spoken, we have been told, since she was “frightened” by Hywel ap Rhodri. She is like a ghost haunted by another ghost. A girl is not struck dumb by a man stealing a kiss, and knowing how Hywel had behaved those last few days, no, we are sure. The only miracle is that she was not strangled, but mayhap he thought a missing girl would cause too much of a stir, and if she was scared and ashamed enough, she would be silent. How silent he could not guess.’ Bradecote felt no need to spare the details. Rhys needed to know everything about the man his prince had commended.
Rhys ap Iorwerth looked crushed.
‘Did you know Rhodri ap Arwel?’ Catchpoll asked, and had to repeat the question, for the Welshman was muttering to himself in his native language.
‘Not well. I was at court only a year or so before he died, and he was not a young man then. His wife was dead many years. He was likely to leer at a pretty face, but leer was all he did, for he was closer to three score years than fifty by his death, and he had aching bones such that he walked slowly, and with a stick. Disliked the damp, he did.’
‘In Wales?’ Catchpoll scoffed. ‘Damp is part of the country.’
‘We are well watered, but the grass is green and lush, so there are benefits, and the wells are always full.’ Rhys ap Iorwerth did not rise to the bait.
‘Well, his son Hywel came here and told Durand FitzRoger, the younger son, that his older brother was a bastard.’ Bradecote saw little would be gained on Rhodri ap Arwel.
‘That would upset him. Was it true?’
‘You do not get the point. Here, in England, only a legitimate son may inherit. If it were as in Wales, where a bastard acknowledged by his sire may do so, well, Earl Robert of Gloucester could have had the crown of England long since, and he has never claimed it, only fought for his legitimate sister’s right.’
‘Ah, yes, it is a different rule. So he was sowing great discord.’
‘You might say that. He also confronted the lady Matilda, mother to both sons.’
‘Nasty, though she would know the truth.’
‘Dangerous you would say, once you met the woman,’ said Catchpoll.
‘Then was he a fool, or else why did he tell her? And did she kill him?’
‘I think telling her, telling Durand, was a revenge on his mother’s behalf,’ declared Walkelin. ‘It makes no difference to him in many ways, whether Doddenham is at peace or no. He could not gain land or power. If the sisters parted at such odds they never spoke again, and his mother told him often of her sister’s perfidy …’
‘What perfidy?’ Rhys ap Iorwerth looked from one to the other of the sheriff’s men.
‘We return to Rhodri ap Arwel,’ said Bradecote. ‘It seems he wooed both sisters before taking the younger to wife. There is a high chance he took the elder another way first, and he revealed that to the younger when the girl married him.’
‘So the bastardy is true?’
‘The lady has sworn not, though she has not sworn she was a maid at marriage. The elder son here was an early brat, but not impossibly early, and she says the wedding to Roger FitzGilbert was three months after her sister went into Wales. She also regrets that the first son, whom she sees as weak, inherited, yet she declares his right. I think she speaks true. If her sister hated the thought of her, then Hywel either believed her, or wanted to revenge himself upon the sister his mother thought betrayed her.’
‘But if this lady knows the accusation false …’
‘It is still shaming, and casts doubts. He may even have threatened to tell Durand if she did not pay him with something of value.’
‘You think Hywel ap Rhodri a blackmailer, my lord?’
‘I put nothing past the man, and in comparison with his other crimes it is pale.’
‘So the mother had cause to wish Hywel ap Rhodri dead? Could she have done it, or commanded it to be done?’
‘Possible but not most likely, and—’
‘My lord, hoof beats,’ Walkelin broke in, and looked along the track that bisected the cluster of cottages. Thorold FitzRoger, straight-backed and proud, was cantering towards his own gate. He pulled up as the sheriff’s men barred the way. He looked at the new face.
‘Who is this?’ FitzRoger frowned. ‘You need more men here?’
‘This is Rhys ap Iorwerth, sent as messenger to the Earl Robert of Gloucester by his prince, and also to report on what we find about the death of Hywel ap Rhodri
.’
Thorold FitzRoger stared at Rhys ap Iorwerth.
‘He is not the lord Sheriff’s man,’ he said, placing him in the third person, and at a distance. ‘The Welsh have caused enough grief and anger in this manor. I will not have him within my walls. If stay he must, then let the priest, in charity, keep him. I shall not.’
Before Bradecote could say anything, the Welshman bowed, lower than needful.
‘It is your manor, my lord, and I shall comply with your wishes.’ He sounded not in the least put out, which infuriated FitzRoger, just as he intended.
‘Where have you been, FitzRoger?’
‘Hawking, as you well know.’
‘Your hawk, and its prey, came home nigh on an hour since.’
‘So? I rode. I do not have to have someone with me at all times.’
‘Better for you if you had. Corbin the steward’s son has been attacked.’
‘He is dead?’
‘Not yet, so does that count as failure?’ Bradecote goaded him.
‘You bastard!’ FitzRoger flung himself down from his horse, and his hand went to the hilt of his sword.
‘Do not be an even greater fool, FitzRoger.’ Bradecote stared him down, as Walkelin stood, prepared to pounce upon the man.
‘This is my manor, and these are my peasants. I want to know who did this as much as you do. Was it some jealous brawl over a girl?’
‘The villagers, your “peasants”, were in the hayfield, and so was Walkelin.’
Walkelin did not want to admit that at the time in question he could only vouch for those engaged upon his rick of hay, or that he had been enjoying himself immensely, and thought his superiors would also prefer the confession to be in private.
‘Then who?’
‘We are finding that out.’
‘Yet you have been here two days and not found out who killed Hywel ap Rhodri.’ FitzRoger could goad also, but to less effect.
‘That is what you think.’ Catchpoll did not add ‘my lord’.
‘I am going within my own bailey, sending my horse to my own stable, and then going to my own hall. Have you grounds for preventing me?’ He glared at Bradecote.
‘Not just yet.’ Bradecote stood aside, and the lord of Doddenham strode angrily into his manor.
‘You know, I do not think that I like him very much,’ remarked Rhys ap Iorwerth, in a conversational tone.
‘You are not the only one,’ said Bradecote, watching the man.
‘Will he have my horse thrown out?’
‘I doubt he will even know it is there.’ Catchpoll spat into the dirt. ‘Now what, my lord?’
‘Now, I think we return to Brictmer, and if his mind is not quite so numb, we find out what happened to Hywel ap Rhodri.’
‘Should I come?’ Rhys ap Iorwerth looked uncertain.
‘I think not this time.’
‘Then I will go to the church, and pray, pray for this Corbin that he does not die, and pray you find the truth, my lord.’ He made a little odd bow, and walked away towards the church.
‘That will be some weighty praying,’ observed Catchpoll.
The trio returned to Brictmer the Steward’s cottage. The door was open, letting in more light. Father Dunstan was still praying. Aldith sat upon the bed, stroking Corbin’s face and murmuring gentle, if desperate, words of encouragement to waken. Brictmer was crouched upon the floor, like a thing broken.
‘Brictmer.’ Bradecote repeated the name before the man moved a muscle, and then he looked up, his eyes deep pits of misery.
‘He is all I have of sons to follow me,’ he whispered.
‘Yes. You said, “It was not murder”, Brictmer. You must tell us how you know this, and what really happened. You must do this.’ Bradecote spoke softly, compelling and yet not commanding. The man nodded.
‘What my lad did was right, right I say, and shall say before any Justice.’ His voice wavered with emotion. ‘He saw him, the Welsh bastard, and what he was doing to poor Milburga, his cousin. She is just a child, a child not even a woman grown and yet … No wonder she has said not a word since. He saw the man, and he killed him in the act, and that cannot be murder, can it?’
‘No, but what else, what happened to the servant, Rhydian?’
‘He left. He was shocked, because he was there, after it happened, even before I got there, I think. He might not have the English, but he could see the girl and what his master had done. There was no doubt to it. He was upset, confused. We told him, by sign more than word, to get on the pony and leave, go home. It was not his fault his master was dead, but nor should that death be avenged, because it was just. He looked quite lost, and would not even ride the pony. He took the chattels and trappings the Welshman had with him, and walked away.’ Brictmer looked at the priest. ‘Murder is a sin most foul, Father, but he was defending his cousin, a little girl. God will pardon him?’ He broke down.
‘The sin was in the act upon her, not the saving, my son.’
‘Then how is this a judgement upon him?’
‘It is no more a judgement upon him than the offence upon little Milburga was a judgement on her. We may be afflicted for our sins, but crimes cannot be judgements else criminals would be doing the work of the Almighty, and such crimes as we have heard of and seen here are an abomination unto God.’ Father Dunstan spoke with a certainty, a confidence, which gave hope to the already grieving father.
‘What I do not understand,’ said Brictmer, ‘is why anyone would harm my son. His act has been not just accepted but approved within our community, and he and Aldith …’ He looked at the back of the young woman tending his boy. ‘There is no rival. Never has been. You hear of such jealousy leading to deaths, but none festers here.’
‘If God spares him,’ murmured Aldith, ‘plight us, Father.’ It was as solemn as a vow.
‘You can be assured that I shall, and gladly, my daughter.’
She turned her head, and looked at the sheriff’s men.
‘Can you tell me he does not lie here because of you?’
‘Aldith.’ Brictmer frowned.
‘Can you, my lord?’
‘No Aldith, I cannot, because when crimes are looked into, the criminals may act to protect themselves, and there seems little other reason to harm Corbin outside of him being connected to the death of Hywel ap Rhodri.’
‘My lord, could not the servant have returned, and thought to take revenge?’ The priest had not yet returned to prayer.
‘What say you, Brictmer?’ Catchpoll looked at the man, who concentrated, brows furrowed, lips compressed.
‘Truly, I say no. Had you seen him, that night, no, he would not have sought revenge.’
‘Ah then, no. But what if he got back to Wales, wondered how he would explain to his prince?’
‘Still I say, no, Serjeant. To return here, to strike a blow upon a man not expecting it, without challenge, if you will, cannot have been the path of the man I saw, and nothing, not even a prince’s disapproval, could make what his master did acceptable, in whatever realm. Whoever did this, it was not the Welsh servant, and when they are found …’ His hands formed into tight fists.
‘No, revenge is not defending the innocent, Brictmer.’ Father Dunstan laid a hand upon the taut muscled arm. ‘The law will see right done. Leave it to the law, and to these sheriff’s men.’ His voice calmed.
‘The good Father is right, Brictmer. There are few who could possibly be involved in this, and we will find out who it was.’ Bradecote looked at him.
Brictmer nodded.
‘Then best we be about it,’ murmured Catchpoll, and it signalled their departure. They ducked out of the doorway.
‘I spouted fine and honestly spoken words, but something does not make sense in all this.’
‘But the answer lies in that hall, my lord, of that we can be sure.’
‘Yes, Catchpoll, but it is like a nest of adders and finding out which one it was, that “bit” will not be easy.’
They set
off back to the bailey. Milburga passed them without looking at them. She was carrying a basket and heading to collect whatever was left of the washing.
‘My lord, what if it was the lord Thorold, and the weapon was with him upon his horse? Might he have cast it away when he “disappeared” after hitting Corbin, and was biding his time before returning?’ Walkelin liked all ends tidy.
‘He might, though it would be good to have that weapon, whatever it was. If he did not throw it away, mayhap it was concealed in the folds of his garb. We might check the stables, and the straw, for a start. Come.’
Walkelin did not actually think the lord Bradecote would be the one grovelling among the straw and horse dung.
Rhys ap Iorwerth left the church. He was thinking, thinking how he would even begin to explain to Madog ap Maredudd. He saw a child, a girl, walking slowly towards the gatehouse, so weighed down with washing she was almost obscured. He shook his head, and quickened his step.
‘Here, little maid, may I take some of your burden from you?’
Chapter Fifteen
Milburga turned, and from lips that had been silent came a high-pitched scream, one that seemed without end. She dropped the basket and backed against the palisade, gripping the timber as if to hold her up. Everyone who heard came running. Brictmer got there first, and, for a man who did not look belligerent, was remarkably aggressive. He saw Rhys ap Iowerth standing, transfixed, his eyes wide and staring, and hit him full in the face. The Welshman fell, and Brictmer reached down and grabbed him by the cotte, pulling him to his feet and yelling obscenities the man could not even comprehend.
The three sheriff’s men arrived to see Rhys being shaken like a rat, and with blood streaming from his nose.
‘I did not touch her,’ he was yelling, as best he could for lack of breath and blood in his mouth, and Milburga was screaming still, as if she would do so until her lungs burst.
‘Let him be, Brictmer,’ cried Bradecote.
‘The Welsh bastard … All the same.’ Brictmer was not a man of temper, but once lost it was lost completely.
Faithful Unto Death Page 19