Serjeant Catchpoll had everything under control. Their presence in the manor had caused flutterings as soon as the reason was made known, and Catchpoll liked ‘flutterings’, for they made for things being said that might otherwise have lain concealed. His first instruction to Walkelin was to play his role as ‘innocent man-at-arms dragged along by his superiors’ and work his ‘red-haired magic’ upon the maidservants.
‘For if Hywel ap Rhodri acted true to character, they will have things to say about the man, and forthright ones at that.’
‘Or be too silent, Serjeant, if he took advantage to their shame.’
‘True enough, but then you have to judge whether the “maid” would have told anyone else, and women are bad at secrets, or whether the wench might wield a knife herself, in revenge, though if she did so, then someone else had to have helped move the body.’
‘And we still have no news of Rhydian.’ Walkelin chewed his lip. ‘And there is the matter of two horses and their harness. I do not like those missing things.’ He spoke almost to himself.
‘Well, then, best you find out about them. I am sure the lord Bradecote would hate to think of you a-worrying over them,’ replied Catchpoll, sarcastically. ‘I am first for the steward.’
Brictmer the Steward was a man in late middle age, a little stooped of shoulder, and thoughtful of demeanour. He shook his head over the ‘bad thing’ that had happened.
‘A quiet manor is this, with everyone about their own tasks, at least these last dozen years since the lordling Durand took himself off to the great lord he serves now. In his youth he was,’ Brictmer gave a wry smile, ‘difficult to have about the place.’
‘Tempersome, was he? Young lords without responsibilities …’ Catchpoll sounded as if he knew all about such.
‘Not tempersome, particularly, but idleness breeds foolishness, I say. He was inclined to do things upon the spur of the moment, upon a whim, regardless of what would follow. His sire could not control him, and he enjoyed annoying his brother, who does not do things without careful thought, and is thus a good lord to serve. Only person Durand FitzRoger ever attended was his dam, and the lady Matilda could bring him to heel like a dog when she chose. Once he went upon his way, we settled good and peaceful, even when the lord Roger died and the lord Thorold took his place.’
‘And now you have a new lady too. Pretty piece, though it is not for the likes of me to say it.’ Catchpoll winked at the steward.
‘Poor? How so?’
‘What woman would want to be lady of a manor where there is a lady still in authority? The lady Matilda is not one to cross, nor has she wanted to step back.’ His voice dropped to a whisper. ‘And she has been wed these three years with no sign of a child. I know as it is the woman who is blamed but … I think both parents wished the lord Thorold had been more like his younger brother. He is a good master, a good lord, but not … strong in body, alas.’ He shook his head. ‘My woman, God have mercy upon her, gave me three sons and two daughters, though two of the boys was taken from us by a spotted fever when small. Children are a blessing.’
‘That they are,’ agreed Catchpoll, nodding in agreement. ‘I doubt the lord Thorold has liked mother and wife both taken up with duties at the bedside of his brother, or did they become close by being parted? Often happens that way.’
‘Oh, I think both prefer the being apart, but fearful poorly was the lord Durand when he came home a month since. Came in a litter, he did, not being fit even to slump upon his horse. The servants were afeared he came with some evil disease that would spread among all, but it has not done so. The ladies cared for him most careful, and but a couple of weeks ago he looked much the better for it, pale but up and about the manor, but then, when he was even thinking of returning to his lord, the fever struck him down again, sweating and crying out in pain he was. Terrible to hear, were his groans. The lady Avelina, I think she believes he will die, but the lady Matilda says no. She says as she has seen such fevers that come and go and give such pains, and the man recovered, in time. Myself, I think if the lady Matilda has told him he shall not die, then he will not die because he would not disobey her.’ Brictmer gave a sad smile.
‘You do not think the death of Hywel, nephew to the lady Matilda, is linked to this manor?’ Catchpoll moved the conversation to the direct.
‘It will have been the servant as killed him. The man did not seem the sort, but then, who better than one who appears loyal.’
‘What was he like, the servant?’
‘Underfed, in the cook’s opinion. She took pity upon him, sure enough, and tried to ply him with extra bowls of pottage. His thin frame made him look a stripling, though I heard his master claim he was full five and twenty years, and it brought out the motherly in her. He was very alert, I thought … reminded me of a stoat, truth to tell.’
‘So we hunt a very tall stoat, do we?’ laughed Catchpoll, watching the man closely.
‘Stoats are not easy to catch, so you had best hope not.’ Brictmer grinned, but Catchpoll thought his eyes wary.
‘We will speak to all in Doddenham, in case anyone saw the Welshmen depart, or heard them in argument. Sometimes things mean nothing until events afterwards show them in a new light, and there is nothing wrong in not having worried over them before. It is the small things as lead to the greater ones, in our work.’ Catchpoll let that sink in, and could sense rather than see a hint of concern in the steward. ‘But there, I must not delay you in your duty. If you would tell me how many work within the palisade, and at what, I shall be about the lord Sheriff’s business.’
Walkelin had found the stables empty of all but horseflesh, and therefore moved on to the kitchen. He liked kitchens, for they smelt good, and a pleasant young man could often get titbits, not just of information. The cook was the age of his mother, and he knew how to handle her, calling her ‘mistress’, very deferentially, and giving her ‘gossip’ about how ‘this body of some Welshman’ had been found, and that because of it he had been dragged all the way to Wales, where the cooking was awful, so that the lord Undersheriff could put a name to the victim, and the Prince of Powys had said the man was good and loyal. This, as intended, got the cook quite agitated.
‘Good? Him? Well, I care not what some prince says. I saw, with my own eyes, the way the man was when here, and he was far from good. His poor servant, now there was a decent lad, though blind to his master’s faults, so blind he was trying to persuade himself that his master could not resist a wench making eyes at him, but I knows better. The girls here are good, honest girls, and one is my niece. Twelve, she is, and yet to look upon any man in that way at all. He made her cry …’ her voice trailed off and she shook her head, ‘so I kept her in the kitchen the rest of the time he was here, and told her if a man such as he dared enter, I would hit him with the skillet.’ The cook fairly bristled with indignation. ‘Look at her, poor lambkin.’ She pointed her ladle as a girl − and Walkelin would not have described her as a woman − entered the kitchen, head down, shoulders hunched.
‘A man would not—’ He spoke what was uppermost in his mind, and stopped short, reddening. It did him little harm in the eyes of the cook, who approved of his disbelief, though it made the girl tremble.
‘No decent man, that is for sure,’ she corrected, but gently.
‘He did not harm you … hurt you … just frighten you, yes?’ Walkelin, for all he was asking a serjeant’s apprentice’s questions, wanted reassurance as any honest young man might seek.
‘Is not frightening more than enough?’ The cook gave the answer, and gripped her ladle as though imagining the assailant.
‘Yes, yes it is but … I hope you can come to know all men are not … like that.’ He spoke to the girl, but she did not lift her head, nor make any sign that she heard him. Walkelin’s open and generally happy face wore a grim expression. ‘I think only his prince will mourn such a man’s death.’
‘Evil comes upon the innocent,’ declared the cook, ‘but them that does it must pay in the hereafter.’ She crossed herself.
‘And should pay here, an’ all.’ A young woman, willowy of stature, and with a strand of fair hair escaped from her coif, brought in a basket of pease. She looked at Walkelin, judging him, and decided he was not one to object to that sentiment. ‘He tried it with me, putting his hand where none but a husband might and I slapped his face, good and hard, lord or no lord. He swore at me, as I guess, but in his own natural tongue, and I care not what he said. To think us free for his using!’
‘He is dead, Aldith,’ said the cook, and Walkelin heard warning rather than admonition in her voice.
‘Good.’ Aldith dumped the basket of pease upon the kitchen floor with an angry flounce, and took a wooden bowl from a shelf. ‘The lord Sheriff might be here, but who is he looking for justice for? Not for the likes of me, for sure.’
‘It is the lord Undersheriff who has come, and the sheriff’s serjeant,’ murmured Walkelin, feeling almost guilty.
‘And would they care that I was molested by that Welsh lecher? No, because I am nobody, and he was somebody, even if only in Wales.’ She took a handful of pods from the basket and began to shell the pease with a vicious enthusiasm that Walkelin found slightly unnerving.
‘You were glad he went, then?’ He stated the obvious, but with a reason.
‘Glad? I never saw the going of him, or I would have left burrs under his saddle and hoped his horse would throw him in a ditch, even a dry summer ditch. Slunk off, he did, in my opinion, tail between his legs, and I wish that was all he had there, for the sake of every maid in the shire.’
‘But his servant, you said, mistress, was not a bad man, yet spoke not against him?’ Walkelin looked back at the cook.
‘Some good men are blinkered to the sinful,’ replied the cook, virtuously, ‘or rather they try to be. I heard them together, voices raised, that first evening, outside the hall, but it was all in Welsh foreign, so … The servant, his name was Riddeann I think, had little English, but said his lord was “a good man” − more in hope than belief, I would say. He said he was the one always being led on, well did this little mummery really, and it was funny to see. He fluttered his eyelashes and made like a woman being forward, and sighed, and shook his head.’
‘Then he was a fool, good-hearted or not.’ Aldith shelled another pod and the peas rattled in the dish. They smelt sweet and fresh and at odds with everything to do with Hywel ap Rhodri, which was linked only with corruption and death.
‘Well, I must go and see what my superiors want to do with me,’ sighed Walkelin, sounding suitably put upon. ‘I will leave you to your labours, ladies all.’ He made them a little bow, which made the cook smile, but Aldith just sniffed.
The sheriff’s men walked out into the cluster of cottages that made the village of Doddenham, but did not set about knocking at doors, since few, unless decrepit, would be found at home with the hay at least cut, and probably being turned. Instead they went to the little church, which was cool and empty.
‘So what have we got, Catchpoll?’ Bradecote leant his arms on the stone of the font and looked at his serjeant.
‘Bits, my lord, small bits, but interesting ones. The men-at-arms are idle in my view, of mind and body, from lack of use and training also. They could give me nothing. From Brictmer the Steward I have it that the lady Matilda still rules the roost.’
‘No surprise there. I met the woman,’ grinned Bradecote.
‘Not only that, though. The lady Avelina has been wed three years, and no babe in her cradle, and the steward clearly thinks his lord not up to the task, shall we say. The lady is thwarted then, in several ways. She has a manor in which she cannot be the lady, and a husband who is not enough of a husband to her.’
‘A less than contented wife is nothing new, and I guessed the same, but of what use is it to us?’ Bradecote’s brow furrowed.
‘We shall see as to that, my lord, for I am not yet of any view upon it. However, there is more. The sick man we did not see, attended by the two ladies, is Durand, the lord Thorold’s younger brother, and far more “able”, at least from repute, if the hints were true. He and his brother are not close. They were at odds often enough when Durand was young and in the manor, but he left to join the lord Gilbert de Clare, and no doubt wished to get advancement that way, being landless. The only person he ever attended was his mother. He was a man who acted first and thought later, the opposite of his brother. The feeling is that he was always favoured by his parents, who thought Thorold more the litter runt than sturdy firstborn. Durand returned a month back, ailing good and proper with a fever. Brictmer thinks the lady Avelina fears he will die, which makes me wonder how fond she is of her brother by marriage, but that the lady Matilda is convinced he will live and he will not disappoint her.’
‘If the lady Avelina is more caring than illness alone demands, I doubt the other lady in the case would turn a blind eye,’ murmured Bradecote.
‘If she has seen. Mayhap she has not. They must take it in turn to nurse the man. Now, the interesting thing is that our sick man was not so sick about two weeks past, and was up and about to the point of thinking of returning to his lord, but was then struck back down.’
‘For real?’ Bradecote queried.
‘I have seen such a fever, my lord. A neighbour of ours, he was very sick of a fever that came upon him, and seemed to leave, but returned three times more within a few months. He sweated bad, and had pains, even in his …’ Walkelin winced.
‘That would keep a man to his bed, for sure,’ Catchpoll grimaced, ‘but if he was healthy enough to have met with Hywel ap Rhodri, did he perhaps have an argument with him, over a wench?’
‘It would have to be very serious to end in a killing.’ Bradecote sounded doubtful. ‘Yet it is possible. From the lady Matilda I got a story in words and a story that was not told.’ Bradecote took a deep breath. ‘Whether this has bearing or not, I too do not know, but … The lady Matilda had a younger sister, Emma. A younger sister, mark you, and I think that rankled, for she was wed first. Her sire held Byton, west of Leominster, in land that is so close to Powys that Wales is not “foreign”. She said he liked the idea of a son-in-law who was powerful over that border, as protection in awkward times, and it makes sense. She said Rhodri ap Arwel “came, wooed, won, and took” and she said he too was a roving man with women. There was something in the way she spoke makes me think he wooed her too, either for sport or to test, and then had the younger sister to wife. She said that after the marriage she and her sister did not meet, but that for a couple of years her father went to each and brought news. She had no knowledge of Hywel ap Rhodri, only a firstborn girl, but that her sister knew of Thorold’s birth. She said Hywel was able to recite his ancestry and she had no doubt he was her nephew, but that he would not have stepped into Doddenham if he had been upon his return journey. She was quite open that he was not safe with women.’
‘And the lady Avelina looked quite upset when she heard of his death,’ muttered Catchpoll. ‘She may be tender-hearted, of course, or there was an attraction to having a “real” man about the place, however briefly, and if she thought Durand ailing …’
‘But he was better then, Serjeant,’ Walkelin reminded him.
‘True enough, so I will leave that one merely a thought, but her lord liked telling her, that I swear.’
‘He did,’ agreed Bradecote. ‘Which leaves us with the FitzRoger’s family as follows.’ He ticked off his long fingers. ‘Thorold disliked his new cousin, dislikes his brother, is afraid of his mother, and jealous about his wife, even if he does not bed her. Brother Durand is favoured by his mother, and his brother’s wife, perhaps, and, when well, is impulsive. I doubt he liked having Hywel about the place doing what he used to do, but more thoroughly. Youthful maid chasing is not the same as hunting the way Hywel clearly did. The lady Avelina is frustrated as lady and wife, favours the brother, but when he is sick he cannot give her “comfort”. She was distressed to hear Hywel ap Rhodri was dead, but not heartbroken. Losing her heart would be unlikely in two days, but it might indicate he took advantage as it was offered.’ Bradecote reassessed what he had heard from the lady’s pretty lips.
‘I asked her if the maids made complaint about Hywel ap Rhodri and his wandering hands, if no more. They might well have come to lady rather than lord. She stalled, then talked of the stronger appetite as a blessing as well as a curse, and I felt that she had responded to that, which makes sense if she was starved of it in the lordly bed. Had she enjoyed his blandishments, his attentions? Had she been tempted to more, or indeed given in to that temptation?’ Bradecote pondered. Many lordly couples did not love each other, but muddled along, as he knew from experience, but he had sensed a desire in her husband to hurt her, and she liked him as little. ‘There is no love lost between lord and lady here. Adultery is a great risk as well as sin, but did she weigh it against frustrated boredom, and think that Thorold would be glad to show he was not impotent, if there were results from that sinning? What better way to make an unfulfilling husband pay, and if the child were male, then it would supplant the brother with whom he did not get on, as heir. Yes, she might have taken her chance.’
‘Even if she has feelings for the brother, Durand?’ Walkelin had his doubts.
‘If it is as the steward believes, and she thinks him likely to die, she might have thought it her one chance for real excitement, or even a revenge.’ Bradecote shrugged.
‘And Hywel ap Rhodri sounds the sort to enjoy cuckolding a relative who probably showed his dislike and played superior,’ added Catchpoll.
‘I doubt mightily if the lady Avelina wanted him dead, but she might be a reason to kill. The lady Matilda might have ordered his death, for she has the stomach for it, I am sure, and something in the past pricks her like a thorn in a horse’s frog. What is more, Thorold declared he had no idea why Hywel was in the shire, but when I gently asked his mother if Hywel might have returned “on his way back from Gloucester”, she turned not one hair. She knew, and so did Thorold, because his lady told me he had said Hywel ap Rhodri must have left before the household was risen because he had lingered too long upon his task and could make up time on the good road from Worcester to Gloucester.’
‘They knew his mission?’ Catchpoll asked.
‘She looks no fool, and nor is Thorold, and sense says even if the Welshman tried to keep that quiet, if she knew it was to Gloucester, and knows Madog ap Maredudd was at Lincoln, then she guessed aright. The thing is, Thorold knew also, yet he lied. Why?’
‘The man has shown no interest in either side, so what reason would that be for murder?’ grumbled Catchpoll.
‘We have but possibility, many possibilities. If there is more beneath the surface, and somehow I think there is, either brother might have had motive.’
Catchpoll sighed, and scratched his ear.
‘Well, whoever did it, it was here,’ announced Walkelin, who had been concealing his news with difficulty. It got just the reception he hoped to see. Both his superiors stared at him.
‘Why?’ asked Catchpoll.
‘Because the stables have five horses within. Two are riding horses for men, so the lord Durand’s horse was brought back when he came home sick, in case he died no doubt, one is a lady’s mount, and two look for work, if they wants horses not oxen for carts and such. All were stalled. There was another stall, but it was empty, of a horse. However, there was straw upon the ground and horse dung among it, fresh.’
‘Interesting. Go on.’ Bradecote nodded at Walkelin.
‘I counted the bridles, my lord. There were six, though I saw no sixth saddle, I admit. I would say there was another horse in that stable this morning, and it was removed while we were in the lord’s hall.’
‘A fair assumption, young Walkelin. Well spotted.’ Walkelin blushed at Catchpoll’s praise. ‘The trouble is, that shows others in the manor know something, if not all. I would swear the steward was too keen to say that the servant killed the master, as his lord had done before him.’
‘And with the villagers in the fields, who would see a horse led, or more likely ridden, out of the manor itself?’ Bradecote frowned. ‘Though I would have thought better bridled and bareback, rather than saddled and in a halter.’
‘Mayhap the saddle was on, and the rider told to hurry up and not worry about the bridle.’
‘So we need to find out who rode the horse, and where. Finding the animal would make denying involvement with the death very difficult.’ Bradecote was thinking.
‘But if everyone is involved, at least after the event, who is guilty?’ Walkelin felt a little deflated that his good news provided more of a problem than an aid.
‘There was one wound in his back, Walkelin. One man − and it was more likely to be a man who had the weapon in hand − actually killed Hywel ap Rhodri, whosoever ordered it.’ Bradecote wanted things as simple as possible. ‘If half the shire were complicit, well, would you bring them before the Justices, if they helped hide the killing of a rapist and murderer?’
‘But we have no proof they knew he was either, nothing proven beyond they thought he was lecherous with serving maids.’ Catchpoll sucked his teeth.
‘My lord, I spoke with the cook, and she had no good word to say of the man. She said he had made her niece cry, and her a girl of but a dozen years, and modest too. Whether that was casual groping of the girl, or worse, was not said, and when I tried to speak a little to the girl it was with the aunt present, and the girl was very shy and said nothing.’
‘We ought to try and speak with her alone, then, but gently.’ Bradecote sighed. ‘There would have been others, by what was said in the hall.’
‘I think, my lord, she is too scared to speak to anyone. She looked at me as if I were a wolf.’ Walkelin was very unlike a wolf, and the sort of young man most women confided in with little compunction. If the girl was scared of him, it had meaning. ‘I heard from another servant girl though, older, but not old. Aldith was aggrieved, and told me she had slapped Rhodri’s face, “lord or not, for placing his hand where none but a husband might”, and I would say it was she who reported him to the lady Avelina.’
‘In view of his previous behaviour she was lucky to live,’ murmured Bradecote.
‘Aye, but it was likely within the manor buildings, so perhaps he dare not, my lord,’ offered Catchpoll.
‘There is one thing more, my lord.’ Walkelin paused. ‘I think the cook knew Hywel ap Rhodri was dead before I told her, and not because she learnt of it swiftly, after we arrived. She was interested in the detail of us finding him, and that I am sure was new to her, but when Aldith was ranting on about him, she said, “He is dead” to her, not like someone revealing news, but reminding her to be wary of sounding too delighted.’
‘Lucky for the cook he was stabbed, then, not beaten over the head with something flat and heavy, else she would be a suspect.’ Catchpoll gave a death’s head grin, but was thinking. ‘Trouble is, my lord, as I says, we have no proof Hywel ap Rhodri was killed because of his way with women, but if that is the belief here, they will lie until Doomsday to protect whoever they think gave real justice to maids like this Aldith.’
‘And we cannot be sure it was the true motive. No.’ Bradecote shook his head. ‘We need to find things, namely a brown horse, a grey pony, and Rhydian the loyal servant, who argued with his master … yet was “faithful unto death”.’
‘Whose death is worth considering, my lord,’ offered Catchpoll.
‘But they know of Hywel’s death here, have had the horse here, Catchpoll.’
‘Aye, my lord, but if Rhydian did for his master, and they knew, even connived at the hiding of the corpse, they might have bid him depart with thanks for the deed, not wanting him taken up for the killing.’
‘I had not thought of that, true enough. I had it either the killer was of the manor and it was done here, or Rhydian did it, and somewhere upon the road to Worcester. This ought to be simple, and yet it is not.’
‘Simple things is sometimes more complicated than you would guess, and difficult prove easy.’ Upon which philosophical pronouncement Catchpoll folded his arms, and turned, as the church door opened with a clunking of the hinges.