Faithful Unto Death

by Sarah Hawkswood

  ‘So tell me again, why did the lad Corbin take the body all the way to the next Hundred and not just bury it in a field by here, where none would reveal what had occurred?’ Rhys ap Iorwerth had had a long day.

  ‘Ah,’ Bradecote leant back against the wall, and looked less brooding. ‘I think the answer lies in the fact that these people are not criminals.’

  ‘But they committed a crime by conceal—’

  ‘I did not say they did not commit a crime, just they are not criminals. Hear me on this. They think like ordinary people. They are afraid of the law. You did not hear what Aldith said to Walkelin, that she did not think the law would care for what happened to her because she was just a servant girl. They know the law about the proof of Englishry. If the body turns up in their Hundred, they are amerced for it if the corpse is not proven English, and they knew Hywel ap Rhodri was not. A criminal would assess the risks and see it would be better to know where the body lies, and keep it deep. These people reacted out of instinct … They wanted the body far away, and since they have his horse, they cannot cry foul murder upon Rhydian, because they are complicit. Corbin mistakenly took the body too far and back into his Hundred, but that was ignorance.’

  ‘You know we were led astray from the beginning, by the lady Susanna ferch Gruffydd,’ concluded Bradecote, and, as Rhys opened his mouth to speak, added, ‘not by intent, no. But her words were so keenly felt. “Faithful unto death” was true, except in the end it was Hywel ap Rhodri’s death. We could only see that Rhydian would have had to be killed if Hywel was killed, and were fretting over where we could find, or even look for, the body.’

  ‘You know, Hywel ap Rhodri never knew that when he came to England, he brought a conscience with him, and that conscience smote him.’ Rhys ap Iorwerth shook his head and yawned. ‘I am for sleep.’

  They parted from the Welsh interpreter after they had broken their fast next morning, and with some amity, even from Serjeant Catchpoll, who recommended that he was careful not to catch a chill when it began to rain upon him as he crossed the border.

  ‘I was never proud to have English blood, not before now,’ admitted Rhys. ‘It has always seemed to make me a lesser man among my peers, though the knowledge of the tongue gained me position at court. I had never been here, see. Now I know I need not feel any shame, because good men are good men, and bad ones bad, and how we say our words matters little, excepting in the understanding between the two. The English are not all thieving hell-fiends.’

  ‘That is good to know.’ Walkelin grinned. ‘I am not sure how to be a “hell-fiend”.’

  ‘That is because your mother brought you up properly, young Walkelin.’ Catchpoll winked at him. ‘You would not be much good at thieving, either.’

  ‘Well, I took the mare from the pease field edge to help me find the brown horse, but I took her back again afterwards, so that would certainly make me a poor thief.’

  ‘Think how much easier our lives would be, if thieves returned everything afterwards,’ sighed Catchpoll.

  ‘Easier perhaps, Catchpoll, but if that day came you would shrivel like a leaf in frost with nothing to do.’ Bradecote gave a lopsided smile.

  ‘True enough, my lord. I wasn’t quite born a serjeant, but serjeanting has been my life more years than worth counting, and I dare say I will not stop serjeanting until my final breath, which is in God’s hands as to when.’

  ‘There’s morbid.’ Rhys looked a bit surprised.

  ‘Not at all. I calls it hopeful. I cannot think of a better way of things.’

  ‘Well, I hope that lies years hence, and wish you, all three, good hunting of them as breaks the law.’ Rhys looked at Bradecote. ‘I will tell Madog ap Maredudd the bad things, and the good outcome, for good it was, and the only mystery will be what happened to Rhydian and that grey pony, which I think will not give him sleepless nights. I bid you farewell, my lord.’ Rhys ap Iorwerth made obeisance, and mounted his horse.

  ‘Take care upon the road home, and God speed to you.’ Bradecote nodded, and the Welshman trotted away, raising a hand before he turned a corner and was lost to view.

  ‘Rather him than me, in all that damp, wet, miserable—’

  ‘Yes, Catchpoll, we know what you think of Wales.’ Bradecote smiled, and clapped the serjeant on the back. His face became thoughtful. ‘It is strange, but Doddenham may be the better for all this.’

  ‘My lord?’ Walkelin looked puzzled.

  ‘Brictmer said Thorold FitzRoger was a good lord, because he did not act in haste, yet in the end his judgement was flawed, and he was getting no heir.’

  ‘But that would mean his brother inherited anyway, in time.’

  ‘Yes, but he was not able to secure a bride himself, so there was no guarantee at all he would sire sons when he did get the manor, if he lived long enough. Now he is lord and will find a wife.’

  ‘But the lady Avelina … He cannot wed her,’ said Walkelin.

  ‘No, though lust rather than love joined them. I think she will be sent from here swiftly, back to her own kin, the widow to be wife again elsewhere, with looks like hers, and hopefully without a husband’s mother to get in the way, and with a husband to husband her.’

  ‘And Durand’s bride will not have another woman giving the orders,’ nodded Catchpoll.

  ‘Nor will Durand. I cannot say I like the man, only that he may do better than his brother, and what I think is unimportant.’

  ‘Unless you are me, my lord. It is pretty important to me.’ Walkelin could not hide the grin.

  ‘Thank you, Walkelin. My day is the better for the knowledge.’

  Their own departure from Doddenham was a mixture of cool formality and real thanks. Durand FitzRoger had woken to the realisation that what he had always wanted was his, and without the overbearing presence of his mother, but the image of her staring, sightless, up at him, dampened his pleasure for a while. The lady Avelina was somehow less lady of the manor, and yet not yet the widow, so was trapped. She was realistic enough to see her time at Doddenham was limited, and did not much regret it. Next time, she hoped, she would be at least as fortunate as other wives. They both bid the sheriff’s men farewell with formal words and little feeling.

  This was not the case among the villagers. Aldith had been prised from Corbin’s bedside to attend her duties in the hall, but Corbin lay looking much improved, and with a stronger colour that his father called upon all to see. He still had no memory of being hit upon the head, but was able to recall everything up until he stood in the bailey with the brown horse discovered.

  Bradecote took note that the broom in the little cottage had seen use, and the place already had the look of one with a woman in it.

  ‘Aye, and glad I will be to have her here. We might be bullied a bit about the home, for she is a strong-willed wench, but she will do Corbin no end of good, make him grow up − and as for me, ah, I learnt long years back how to give in graceful like, to the woman of the house.’ Brictmer beamed at them.

  Catchpoll asked about serving Durand FitzRoger.

  ‘We shall see what we shall see, with him. It might have sobered him, and if he settles, well, we should get on well enough. I sees no use in looking for problems before they comes and finds me.’

  ‘Very sound, very sound,’ approved Catchpoll.

  ‘And Brictmer, I said to the lord Durand that the law was clear upon the horse of Hywel ap Rhodri. By his law and ours both, the beast is to sell on Milburga’s behalf, and the money kept for her as dower. He will not question that.’

  ‘Thank you, my lord. It will take time but … it will take time.’

  ‘We have discussed also how we take our prisoner to Worcester.’ Giving FitzRoger title and status now seemed wrong. ‘He should, by right, follow us bound, and upon foot, but we have homes and families, and do not relish delay. If you permit, we will take him, bound, but upon that brown horse. The man will not be returning, so we would see the horse sold for the best price in Worcester and send y
oung Walkelin back with whatever it fetches, to be kept for Milburga. If you keep the horse, you have to feed it, and there is always the risk it might fall sick and die. This way the coin is secured.’

  ‘You would get a better price in Worcester and we have much to do in these months coming, upon the land. Thank you, my lord. What you suggest seems best, and I know that the coin will come back.’ The steward was both relieved and pleased.

  They spoke briefly to Father Dunstan, who sent them upon their way with his blessing, and then mounted to take the Worcester road. They came a while after to the dip where the little stream marked the Hundred boundary, and glanced up to the left to the trees among which Hywel ap Rhodri’s corpse had been found. It felt a long time ago.

  ‘That, my lord,’ remarked Catchpoll, ‘is made the more so by him being just a victim at the start of it, and becoming as much the criminal before the end. We have, so to speak, two men.’

  ‘Do we tell all to the priest at Cotheridge, Catchpoll?’

  ‘It is not so far as gossip will not come through Broadwas. I think we gives him the truth, with a few details left to slip quiet into “forgotten”, my lord.’

  ‘Yes, that is the best course.’

  So they diverted off the trackway to the little church, and its near blind priest, who welcomed undersheriff and serjeant cheerily, and listened to what they had to say, whilst Walkelin hung back with their prisoner.

  ‘I will speak with my flock. I doubt they will offer any more prayers for the man buried here, but as long as they leave him to God’s judgement, I will be content, and they will pray for the innocent, wherever they may be. I shall see to that. Will you also inform Father Prior in Worcester, my lord?’

  ‘Yes, I will see that done.’

  ‘Thank you.’

  There was amicable silence among the sheriff’s men, and morose silence from FitzRoger, as they descended from the ridge above the Teme. Then Bradecote asked the question to which he had wanted the answer for the better part of the time he had known the old serjeant.

  ‘It is no use, Catchpoll. I have to ask, though you can refuse to answer. Why is it that you hate everything Welsh?’ He turned his head to look at him in profile. Catchpoll sniffed, and shrugged.

  ‘Nearest you could call it is “blood feud”, my lord, though that is more personal. Come down the family it has, and it goes against the grain to do aught but follow it.’ He paused, and then, as if it were a failing, mumbled, ‘My oldmother, my father’s dam, came out of Herefordshire.’

  Bradecote looked puzzled, then his brow cleared a little.

  ‘Ah, over on the border th—’

  ‘South of Hereford. The Welsh burnt it, bit over ten years before yo—the Battle, and King William.’ Catchpoll felt it was wrong to feel Bradecote was ‘foreign’, and there was English enough lineage on the distaffs. ‘They burnt Hereford, and they burnt the place she lived. Mite she was, no more than seven or eight, I suppose. They killed her father, though she did not see, and she hid, hid well enough they did not find her as they did her mother and sister. She saw that well enough, and we was brought up to know … and promise … As a place, as a people, I will keep to that. As for single souls, I am not so foolish as to think all for damning. Drogo’s wife, well, she has lived in England long enough to lose the taint, if not the accent at times, and that wench of Walkelin’s. He may make near an Englishwoman of her yet, and they are women. Hard it went with me to be civil with Rhys the Interpreter, mighty hard, but I cannot lie. He was a fair man, and the action of Rhydian the servant we shall never see … I find no fault. Just do not expect me to praise their weather, their tongue, their morals, and this, this never goes further. Even the lord Sheriff knows it not.’

  ‘It goes not further, Catchpoll. That I swear. It is known, and being so, is forgotten.’

  ‘Thank you, my lord.’

  They crossed the Severn just after noon, and led their mounts up to the castle, with Bradecote already rehearsing all that he would say to William de Beauchamp. Walkelin took FitzRoger to the cells, and his superiors went in search of the lord Sheriff. He was in a chamber, dictating to a scribe, whom he sent away with a gesture of dismissal, and looked at his men.

  ‘Well?’ There was a certain glitter to his eyes that Catchpoll found disconcerting.

  Hugh Bradecote, Undersheriff, made his report.

  ‘It sounds a tangle, my lord, and so it was, but—’

  ‘Oh, I do not doubt you. Indeed, as of yesterday I knew it all, at least as far as the death of the Welshman went.’ De Beauchamp enjoyed the look of consternation upon the faces of his men. ‘The rest is new, of course, and I cannot say the loss of Thorold FitzRoger troubles me much. His brother may be useful yet, and a better man, though he will have his work cut out to make his men worth their employ.’ William de Beauchamp laughed without mirth. ‘Last time FitzRoger paid service I heard his overlord complained that they were the most useless heap he had ever seen.’

  Bradecote was still coming to terms with the lord Sheriff’s knowing about Hywel ap Rhodri.

  ‘Know it all, my lord? How?’ He sounded suitably astounded.

  ‘Because the Prince of Powys sent word, not by a messenger upon a fleet horse, but a traveller nonetheless, who presented it to me yesterday. It seems the servant killed the master all along, but not as a murder but defending a young girl Hywel ap Rhodri was in the process of raping. He still killed his lord, his master, and so, in penance, walked barefoot to Brecon Priory, by way of Hereford, which is why you heard nothing of him to the north. He arrived, barely able to place one bleeding foot in front of the other, and half-starved, and only after two days was he fit to make his confession and request the prior send word to Madog ap Maredudd, with the pony, which was Hywel’s widow’s, by right, and the man’s belongings. Madog said he was incredulous, but that his wife, the lady Susanna, corroborated that Hywel ap Rhodri was a danger to women, and so he has declared that Rhydian may remain with the brothers in Brecon, where he wishes to take the cowl. The prince sent to me, that you might have no further troubles.’

  ‘Well, he will hear how we made the discovery of the full truth ourselves, when Rhys ap Iorwerth reaches Mathrafal, and know English justice is fair.’

  ‘Fair? Is it?’ William de Beauchamp looked disbelieving. ‘I will say as it could be a lot worse, and that will suffice me.’

  ‘My lord, you spoke of not taking the murdrum fine in this case. Since it was of a Welshman by a Welshman, I take it that remains true?’

  ‘It does, Bradecote, not least because it would fall upon the Hundred in which Durand FitzRoger needs to find his fee, so to speak, and it would not help. We can forego it quite correctly.’

  ‘Then am I free to go, my lord? I have but to report to the Prior of St Mary’s about Hywel ap Rhodri, and would then be about my own business. I hope the hay is near in.’

  ‘Yes, you may go, but do not tell me you will gallop home to see the state of your hayfield.’ He grinned, lewdly, and Bradecote’s cheeks reddened. ‘Catchpoll, I want you to be seen about the river wharves. The hot weather has meant frayed tempers, and brawls over who puts what where, and as yet none has had more than a bloody nose, but it would be useful for your own nose to be seen parading up and down to remind everyone to keep civil.’

  ‘Aye, my lord, I will see to it.’

  ‘Good. You can send the scribe back in as you leave.’

  Hugh Bradecote entered the cool calm of the Priory of St Mary’s, and was shown to the prior’s lodgings by a brother who could ask after a cousin upon Bradecote’s manor. He waited, at ease, whilst the same brother hastened to find Father Prior, who came, and listened, and sighed as Bradecote knew he would.

  ‘The greater the sinner, the greater the need for us to pray for his soul, but I confess myself that the foul deeds of the Welshman are such as try my compassion, which, unlike that of the Almighty, is not boundless. We will continue to pray for his soul, undoubtedly in torment, but in addition will pray fo
r all those he harmed, known and unknown.’

  Before he left, Bradecote also left coin and a request, blushingly made, to Father Prior for prayers of a different kind.

  ‘Be sure, my son, I shall include them in my prayers each day for all the next month. Your lady wife is a good daughter of the Church, and kindly remembered for her aid to our brothers in distress when … after Christmas. That she continued her pilgrimage to Polesworth even after the events shows devotion. I am sure her prayers, and ours for her, will be answered.’

  ‘Thank you, Father.’

  Bradecote left a little lighter of pocket but also of heart and returned to the castle to collect his horse. Catchpoll and Walkelin were about to set off to the riverside, having slipped away to Mistress Catchpoll for ale and bread. Thus fortified, they felt quite up to patrolling the wharfage. Bradecote mounted his steel-grey horse and looked down at the other two.

  ‘Do as Serjeant Catchpoll instructs you, Walkelin, and also remember, if it comes to public brawls, it is better to stand back and let them wear themselves out a bit first before you step in and take charge. Correct, Serjeant?’

  ‘Most correct, my lord.’ Catchpoll grinned, and nodded, which was all the obeisance offered or needed. ‘And I hope as your hay is ricked, and your lordling thinking of taking his first steps.’

  ‘Thank you, Catchpoll.’ He wheeled his horse about and trotted out under the castle gate.

  ‘Now, young Walkelin,’ Catchpoll rubbed his hands together, ‘let us remind Worcester we are back.’

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