Vale of Tears

by Sarah Hawkswood

  ‘But the report said the body was well dressed, in a green jerkin with fine decoration, and good boots too, my lord.’

  ‘You mean the body might be someone of note?’ De Beauchamp eyed Serjeant Catchpoll with suspicion. ‘If you are trying to worm your way out of a journey to Fladbury, Serjeant, you are out of luck.’

  ‘Me, my lord? A journey to Fladbury sounds far more interesting than another day making myself the most unpopular man in Worcester, my lord.’

  ‘I thought you had your man Walkelin doing that, you old fox.’

  ‘Ah yes, but he is not yet experienced enough to do it alone for long.’

  ‘And I also thought that at this season it was I who was the most unpopular man in Worcester.’ The sheriff grinned, wryly.

  ‘The mantle of your unpopularity spreads wide, my lord,’ responded Catchpoll, his lips twitching. He thought he could judge his superior’s mood well enough to jest.

  William de Beauchamp laughed out loud.

  ‘“Mantle of unpopularity”. I like that, Catchpoll. Well, you can creep from under it and head for Fladbury in the morning. And as for the status of the corpse, you can go through Bradecote and tell my undersheriff he can stop tupping that new wife of his and abandon a husband’s duties for shrieval ones. He can inspect the body with you, and take any declarations on identity, noble or otherwise.’

  ‘And if it is murder, my lord?’

  ‘You’ll bring me the killer, dead or bound, or have very good reasons why not. I trust you not to fail me, Catchpoll.’

  ‘Thank you, my lord.’ Catchpoll was in fact less than grateful for the burden laid upon him, but judged that at least if he failed, the undersheriff would share the blame. ‘And Walkelin?’

  ‘Oh, take him with you. I don’t want a job half-done here, and him maundering about looking lost without your guidance. He shows promise, I give him that, but he has a lot yet to learn.’

  Chapter Two

  Catchpoll rode into the manor at Bradecote on a loose rein, mid morning on the following day, with Walkelin still chuckling over what the lord Sheriff had said about his newly-wed undersheriff. The serjeant thought Walkelin would do well to be reminded that Hugh Bradecote was not at the top of the chain of command. They got a nod of recognition from the man-at-arms who was honing a knife on a whetstone. Walkelin rather hoped that he would follow Serjeant Catchpoll within, but he was told to walk the horses, since, with luck, the undersheriff would be at home, and they would be able to set off without delay.

  Christina Bradecote was sat in the solar, bouncing a gurgling baby of just over seven months on her lap. It was a natural enough scene, and the look of love upon her face would not have been different had she given birth to him. She was his mother now, and if she dreamt of a child of Hugh Bradecote’s getting, stirring within her, she had already given her mother-love to baby Gilbert, and prayed for the soul of the woman that bore him. Ela Bradecote had been cold and still within hours of his birth, God grant her peace. Ela might have carried him, reasoned Christina, but it was she would raise him, Hugh’s son, now ‘their’ son, and his first attempts at speech would be directed at her just as surely as if she had passed through travail with him.

  She looked up as Catchpoll was ushered in, and smiled.

  ‘Serjeant Catchpoll. Ah, do not tell me! You are here to drag my lord from my side, shame on you.’ She pouted, but a dimple peeped. He thought how well she looked, how openly happy. ‘He is gone out with the steward this morning, but I expect him to return by noon.’

  ‘Sheriff’s business, my lady, so I say as the shame is the lord Sheriff’s.’ Catchpoll gave his death’s head grin. ‘And I will wait in the hall, if I may. No wish to disturb you and the babe.’ He nodded at the infant, who was now blowing bubbles, and still gurgling.

  ‘He has grown well, since you saw him last, has he not?’ Christina sounded mother-proud.

  ‘Aye, he has that. And has teeth, I see.’

  ‘Oh yes, as the wet nurse keeps muttering about.’ She sighed. Nobody knew just how much she regretted that she could not nurse him herself, how strong the urge flooded through her when she cradled him, but instinct was not enough. So, when he clamoured for food, it was Aldith whose scent and succour brought peace to the hall. ‘But wait here, and tell me of anything interesting that has happened in Worcester.’

  It was idle enough chatter, but passed the time until the long stride of Hugh Bradecote was heard crossing the hall. He opened the door, and entered, shaking the wet of a sharp April shower from his hair.

  ‘Catchpoll, you come with orders, no doubt. I saw Walkelin in the bailey, taking shelter from the rain.’ He nodded at the grizzled serjeant, and indicated a seat, then gave his wife a bright, and intimate, smile. If the lady Bradecote looked radiantly happy, her lord looked almost smug. Little over two months after they were wed, the novelty of marriage had clearly not begun to dull into the everyday.

  ‘My lord, the lord Sheriff has had word from Fladbury of a body fetched up in the mill leat, and the corpse has to be viewed and decided upon. God alone knows where it has come down from, and how many times it has been cast back, quiet like, like a tiddler, by those afraid to be penalised for it, but there.’

  ‘And the sheriff wants me as well, to look at a drowned body?’ Bradecote looked surprised, and not a little annoyed. Was the sheriff just ‘reminding’ him of his shrieval duties?

  ‘Oh aye, I thought you’d not be impressed, my lord. But this body is not just some villager who thought he would look at his reflection in the water one night whilst ale-sodden, and tumbled in. This corpse has no name, but he has got a fine set of clothes, according to report. The Hundred is keen to find out who he might be to avoid the murdrum fine, if he is English that is. And if he is a better class of corpse, well, the lord Sheriff thought a better class of sheriff’s man ought to take a look.’ Catchpoll did not grin, quite, but the eyes danced.

  ‘But even if he isn’t English, a drowning is not always a murder. Accidents happen all the time.’

  ‘Indeed, my lord, and that is one of the things we are going to look at. Most folk don’t study the dead as we do. They see a body in the water and say “Ah, he drowned”, unless there is an arrow through his neck or his head is missing. And these people want us to say he drowned in an accident. But you and I know a man can drown, or can be drowned, and if there are signs—’

  ‘So I cannot get out of this, can I?’ Bradecote interrupted, with a groan.

  ‘No, my lord,’ replied Catchpoll, cheerily.

  ‘I do not see why you should be dismayed, my lord.’ Christina was trying not to smile at his reluctance. ‘It sounds but a simple task. Go and see this body, decide on how he died, and return home.’

  ‘And if it was murder after all?’

  ‘Then you will solve it. I have every faith in you, in you both.’ She beamed at her husband, and then at Catchpoll.

  ‘Thank you, my lady. The lord Sheriff said much the same, but somehow it sounded more of a command and less of a compliment.’

  ‘We will eat, and then be about the business. We can reach Fladbury by evening, easily enough. Go and fetch in young Walkelin.’

  ‘And I will send for food and ale.’ Christina called the nurse, who had been dozing in a corner, to take the baby, and would have followed Catchpoll from the chamber, had not her husband detained her by taking her arm. ‘My lord?’

  ‘You understand I want to go and to return swiftly?’ He spoke softly.

  ‘Of course.’ She smiled fondly at his concern, and her voice dropped. ‘I know that you will not be away longer than is needful, but your mind must be upon the task, remember, not wandering back here beneath the bedclothes.’ She blushed, but her eyes were bold. ‘I shall see to it that your manor runs well in your absence, and keep your bed warm ready for your return.’ Her finger stroked down his slightly stubbled cheek and across his lips. ‘Now, my lord, a wife’s duties also include hospitality, so let me go and arrange for bread and
a good cheese to set before you, Serjeant Catchpoll, and the ever hungry Walkelin.’

  A little over an hour later, Hugh Bradecote mounted his big-boned grey, and with a nod to his lady, led the trio of sheriff’s men out of the courtyard at a brisk trot. He had parted more privately from her with an embrace that was both a farewell and a reminder of his passion for her, and she could watch him depart with what appeared upon the surface as almost regal coolness, however loth she was within to see him leave. He was the undersheriff of Worcester, and duty was duty. It was what had first brought him to her, and she accepted that it would also be what frequently took him away from her. All she asked of heaven was that he always came back.

  The sheriff’s men arrived in Fladbury as the afternoon cooled to evening, and went first to the house of Oswin the Reeve. His wife was quite overcome at the presence of the undersheriff in her humble home, and her nerves sought relief in chatter, which was as voluble as it was inconsequential. Bradecote cast the reeve a look which spoke of the need for a simple exchange of information, and so Oswin ushered them, as soon as he could, to the church, wherein the body lay by the font.

  ‘You need me to remain, my lord?’ He sounded none too willing.

  ‘I would rather you fetched the priest, and then the miller and his lads that found him, if you would, Master Reeve.’

  ‘Aye, that would be best. I’ll not be long.’ He eyed the covered body with distaste, and made his escape.

  Catchpoll and Bradecote exchanged looks. The undersheriff nodded, and Catchpoll lifted the old blanket that covered the body. They did not expect it to be a pretty sight, but then they had seen bodies before that had not met a peaceful end in their beds. The serjeant sucked his teeth, speculatively.

  ‘Been in the water some time afore they got him out. Makes things more difficult for us, of course, both to find out what happened and where.’ He pursed his lips. ‘Did you drown, my well-dressed friend?’

  Walkelin frowned.

  ‘If he came from the water, Serjeant …’

  ‘That just proves where he was, not where he had been, nor yet what happened. You help me get his clothes off him, young Walkelin.’ The younger man pulled a face. ‘No point in being sight-sick, lad. It is just a body.’

  ‘But it is a bit … ripe, Serjeant.’

  ‘Then best we do it now, before it gets any worse. Come on.’

  They took the garments carefully, piece by piece, and Bradecote inspected them for any signs that might help them. The green jerkin was well made and had intricate stitching. The undershirt was fine linen and his boots were not long worn. The sound of footsteps on the stone flags made them turn. The priest had entered. He looked sombre, and nodded at the undersheriff. Catchpoll resumed his inspection of the naked torso, and screwed up his eyes. The flesh was white and swollen from the water it had taken into the tissues, though where the clothing had covered it there was less disfigurement from fish biting.

  ‘Go on, Catchpoll, tell me what you think you can see.’ Bradecote studied his serjeant as carefully as the serjeant studied the corpse.

  ‘Well, if you look careful like, I think you can see a thin mark, just here, up by the rib. There is no sign of blood of course, and the swelling of the flesh makes it hard to see. But I think a narrow blade entered here, a dagger most like. If it was long enough it would kill fast, into the heart.’ Catchpoll pressed his thumbs either side of the faint mark, and the skin did part slightly.

  ‘Is it enough to prove an unlawful death? It seems such a small wound.’ Father Jerome peered, reluctant but wondering.

  ‘Size of wound is not everything, Father.’

  ‘No, but will it be believed?’ Walkelin asked. ‘You said yourself that folk will be wanting death by drowning, since a murder would bring the threat of the murdrum fine.’

  ‘What they want and what they get is not up to them, or us. It is up to the law. This man died by another’s hand.’ The serjeant was firm.

  ‘Is it just possible that he could have taken his own life, Catchpoll?’ Bradecote would prefer it not to be a killing but …

  ‘Well, I doubt a man would stab himself, and right by the river. Most folk that kill themselves want to be found, want to show how they were driven to the deed by circumstance or persons they knew. Remaining unknown is not often their choice. Also, a man might cut his own throat, but this is not a common wound to inflict upon oneself. No, you can be sure this man did not die by his own hand.’

  The door of the church creaked open, and the miller, his son and apprentice entered cautiously. The priest instinctively placed himself between them and the pale body, and Hugh Bradecote stepped forward.

  ‘You called for us?’ Wulstan asked. ‘I am Wulstan, miller of Fladbury, and this is my son, Martin, and my apprentice, Ulf. They first saw the body in the leat.’

  The boys nodded.

  ‘When was this?’ Bradecote smiled reassuringly at the youths.

  ‘Day before yesterday, about noontide, my lord,’ volunteered Ulf. ‘We only came out of the mill then, to eat. It was in the leat, about a hundred paces from the wheel, floating. When it entered, we could not say.’

  ‘Understood. Thank you.’

  ‘My lord, I took him out the water, but I have seen things that have been fresh in and those that have not, and he was not. There is no saying where he comes from, nor if this was his first landfall, if you get me.’ Wulstan was sombre.

  ‘Unwanted, and thrown back − aye, that is likely,’ muttered Catchpoll.

  ‘But I did right, to get him out, the drowned man?’ Wulstan needed official commendation. ‘Besides the fact he would have got caught on my wheel.’

  ‘You did right, but the man did not drown.’

  ‘But you can see—’

  ‘We can see that he took a blade beneath the ribs, and he did not get that off some Avon pike.’ Catchpoll saw the anguish on the miller’s face. ‘It is sorry I am for it to be so, but we now have even more reason to seek out his identity, for this man was killed by intent.’

  ‘You will find out who he is, my lord?’ It was almost a plea. Wulstan was imagining the opprobrium of his neighbours and looked to Hugh Bradecote to rescue him and them from the consequences of his good deed.

  ‘Oh, I would expect to find out − and think of it, Master Miller. There are far more Englishmen than “foreign” in the shire. Personally, since I was born here, have never left the shores of England, and nor did my father before me, I think of myself as English, whatever the bloodlines may prove.’

  ‘Fair enough, my lord, but ’tis those bloodlines that count, and for such purposes you are tainted foreign, however much you gainsay it.’

  ‘There’s no cause to berate the lord Undersheriff.’ Catchpoll was wary of his superior’s dignity, however much in agreement he might be with the man.

  ‘It is all right, Serjeant. Master Miller was stating a fact, and we deal in facts, as you often tell me. The fact we need next is where this man entered the river, and where he came from before he did so. If he had been in the river some three or four days, how far might he have come?’

  ‘Avon is flowing nicely, my lord. If he was midstream it might be he came from Warwickshire, easy enough, but then if he got into the shallows for a bit and lingered, so to say, he might only have come from below Evesham, even.’

  ‘My lord, where he came into the river might be upstream of where he lived anyways,’ announced Walkelin, thoughtfully. ‘We do not know where he was heading.’

  ‘And we do not know of anyone being cried as missing as yet. That worries me, so it does.’ Catchpoll grimaced. ‘If a man goes off for the day and does not return, his nearest and dearest make a fuss.’

  ‘Then perhaps he lived alone, or else his “nearest and dearest” did not expect him back for some days, Catchpoll.’

  ‘Or at all,’ piped up Martin, becoming interested.

  ‘Or at all, my lad. Well spotted.’ Catchpoll nodded at the boy, approvingly.

  ‘We c
an say as he is not from about Fladbury, for anyone that grand would be well known hereabouts.’

  ‘Which means we look in bigger pools, if he is a bigger fish.’ Bradecote smiled slightly. ‘Such a man as this might not stand out so much in a town, a town like Evesham. Catchpoll, I am sending you across by the nearest ferryman to work up to Evesham on the far bank, and find out if our man was known or fetched up there in the last few days. Walkelin and I will take this bank and we meet in Evesham tomorrow afternoon. Father, I want the body sent to the abbey at Evesham. Can you arrange for a cart or burden-beast to get it there, but not before noon? I would prefer us to be there first and speak to Abbot Reginald.’

  ‘Of course, my lord.’

  ‘And for tonight?’ Catchpoll was wondering.

  ‘I can offer you hospitality, my lord.’ Wulstan offered. ‘The wife would be pleased to feed you, and there is space enough in the mill.’

  Bradecote smiled, though his heart sank at the thought of a night upon the mill floor, rather than snuggled up to his warm, soft wife. Mistress Miller also proved to be a cook who believed in quantity rather than quality. As the undersheriff later whispered to Catchpoll, as they lay wrapped in their blankets and on the mill floor upon as many spare sacks as the miller could muster, his heart had not sunk as deep as the leaden dumplings that the lady of the house had fished up from the greasy depths of her pottage.

  ‘If you hear a strange thump in the night, Catchpoll, it is my insides, trying to move the foul things.’

  ‘They were not so bad, surely, my lord,’ whispered Walkelin, from the corner. ‘They were filling enough.’

  ‘Filling, perhaps, but so would a lump of iron be filling, and I do not recommend that,’ griped the undersheriff. ‘Now let us try and get some sleep. And if you snore, I shall kick you, Serjeant.’

  Serjeant Catchpoll did not snore, but none of the three men slept well. Bradecote’s digestion was disordered, Catchpoll’s bones disliked the hard floor, and Walkelin woke with a nightmare in which he was being eaten alive by a huge, talking fish. Dawn saw them stifling yawns and rolling their blankets, keen to shake the mill dust from their boots, and indeed their hair. Catchpoll told Walkelin that he now had a good disguise for his memorable red mop.