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.
‘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?’