Vale of Tears

by Sarah Hawkswood

  ‘Will Horsweard, we have news of your brother, and it is not good news.’ Hugh Bradecote stated the fact simply.

  ‘And you are?’

  ‘Hugh Bradecote, Undersheriff of Worcester.’

  ‘Then tell me this bad news, my lord.’ His voice was rasping, as if his throat was sore.

  Even as Bradecote opened his mouth to speak, Amicia took a great, gulping sob, and began to weep, loudly. It did not take this to tell Will Horsweard his brother was dead, for he reasoned no undersheriff would come to see him if it were not a death or an arrest for a capital crime, and the sheriff’s men ferreting for information.

  ‘Your brother was found in the mill leat at Fladbury, Master Horsweard, with the signs of a knife wound that killed him. We want to find out who killed him, and why.’

  ‘And where,’ added Walkelin, doggedly. To Walkelin’s steady mind the finding of the ‘where’ opened unknown paths for investigation. There was always the chance that the body was taken some distance to go into the river, but if that was so, why not bury the man out of view, where he might not be discovered at all, as opposed to the river where a corpse, though not uncommon, would be bound to come ashore somewhere and be the object of interest to the law.

  Will Horsweard cast his sister-in-law a look that Catchpoll thought largely disgust. So he did not think her the grieving sort either, did he?

  ‘He was a decent man,’ declared Will, heavily. ‘Have you the body that we might bury as he is due?’

  ‘We have,’ confirmed Catchpoll, ‘and though he has been identified to us, we would like you also to say it is Walter Horsweard.’

  ‘Is that not my duty?’ asked Amicia, sniffing now that nobody was paying her attention.

  ‘Might be better if his brother did it.’ Bradecote did not think the body suitable for a woman’s viewing, whether she was grief-stricken or not. His look to Will Horsweard spoke volumes.

  ‘Aye, you keep yourself here and make arrangements for a wake feast, Sister, and leave that part to blood kin.’ Again the unspoken animosity prickled in the air.

  ‘The body lies at the abbey. One of the brethren identified it. He said as he was kindred.’ Catchpoll was so alert to every nuance of this pair that his hair almost stood upon end.

  ‘That’ll be our mother’s sister’s son, Wilfrid. If he has vouched for it being Walter, then there is no doubt of it, but I’ll come just the same, and collect the body also.’

  ‘You’ll have to make presentiment of Englishness, while you are about it,’ Catchpoll declared.

  ‘Aye, or the souls that took him from the Avon will pay for the “privilege”,’ nodded Will Horsweard.

  ‘Then come with us now, Master Horsweard, and the deeds can be done and the burial arranged.’ Bradecote looked at the widow. ‘And we will leave you to your arrangements, Mistress.’ He nodded, part acknowledgement, part dismissal, since he felt he controlled what was going on.

  Out in the spring sunshine, so at odds with the funereal gloom within, Bradecote gave Catchpoll a look, and engaged Horsweard in conversation, whilst the serjeant grabbed Walkelin by the arm and spoke to him in an urgent whisper.

  ‘You make yourself as invisible as that mop of yours permits, and watch the widow. She may set about the arrangements as directed, but if she has a lover, aye, or more than one, you can be sure she will run to him first. So you watches, and follows, and keeps note of all you see and all you hear. Meet back at the abbey guest hall when you’re done.’

  Walkelin nodded, his young face serious. With a pat on the arm, Catchpoll went to follow the slow pace of the halting Will Horsweard, noting how hard it was for the long-legged undersheriff to keep step.

  The newly declared Widow Horsweard did nothing for a few minutes, beyond sitting heavily upon a stool and closing her eyes. It was not in prayer. As Bradecote had foreseen, her world was turned upside down in an instant, and comprehending it seemed all but impossible. The stables, the messuage, would go to Limping Will, and she would find herself unwelcome in what had been her home these three years past. Well, she would not miss it, but to return to her now widowed mother, to be lectured and moaned at for not giving Walter a son and making her position secure, was something she sought to avoid. After all, Walter had never got a child off his first wife either, so why should she be blamed? Yet even if things went as she hoped, there was a period of mourning, and that meant a time here, treated as an incubus, or in her mother’s house, belaboured. She must make decisions, and not about what fare to offer at Walter Horsweard’s wake.

  When she emerged from her cogitations, it was with her full, bow-curved lips compressed tight with determination. Her first act was, however, simply to change her gown for something sombre. If word had begun to spread in the town, it would be best not to look frivolous or disrespectful. Then she slipped from the house, head down, modesty personified, and threaded her way through the streets to a house in Colestrete, and knocked upon the door. She looked left and right, but saw nobody. Walkelin, his hair stuffed under a wool-felt cap that his mother had given him and which he loathed, but for which he saw a good use, had turned his back and was apparently studying a tray of belt buckles. The door was opened, he could not see by whom, and she disappeared within.

  ‘Good, solid work, master, and each one different.’ The vendor smiled encouragingly at Walkelin.

  ‘I am sure,’ replied Walkelin. ‘Do you have something suitable for an older dame, not like the comely wench that just set foot in her house, over there.’

  ‘Comely we—?’ The man looked puzzled and then laughed. ‘Comely, aye, master, but that weren’t her home, for sure. That is the house of Robert the Coppersmith’ − he dropped his voice to a throaty whisper, and gave a conspiratorial wink − ‘who is better known as Robert “Hengestgehangod”.’ He gesticulated with his hands, and Walkelin fought the rising blush.

  ‘You mean he’s … you know, like a stallion?’

  ‘A fine figure of manhood, indeed he is. Known for his, er, size and stamina ever since his voice broke. You understand, young master, in a town with a river, like Evesham, and where the lads all play in the water, such things are noticed. And to be honest, you would be hard pressed not to notice Robert’s “assets”, even if he did not make sure they were common knowledge. Unfair it is, really, that some should be so endowed when others are lacking, but there. It is God’s work, a man’s form, so we must not complain.’

  ‘And that is not his wife?’ Walkelin sounded suitably curious.

  ‘He buried her two autumns past, poor woman. There’s some say as he wore her out … eh, but in truth she coughed blood, God rest her soul. That “comely wench” is Mistress Horsweard, whose husband is often from home, and when he is there cannot provide for all her needs, if you catch me.’ He sighed. ‘Not that there wouldn’t be a queue of Evesham men willing to do her justice, given half a chance. Pity it is I am happily married.’ He sounded regretful of the fact.

  ‘But that is adultery.’ Walkelin could not keep the shocked disapproval from his voice. ‘What if the lusty coppersmith gets her with child? And if you know of this, surely word travels like a flame through straw? The husband must know.’

  ‘I dare say Walter would not worry overmuch, if it gave a son to keep his brother from the business in time, and he is not a man to think too hard about what his woman does in his absence. Best that way, I think you’ll agree.’

  ‘He must surely hate his brother, if that is the case.’

  ‘Hatred? Perhaps not, but there is no brotherly love between them, I am thinking. Walter’s brother is crippled in body, and Walter treats him as if crippled in mind, which he surely is not. Rankles, that does, and makes Will a bitter man. So, if a son lies in Walter’s crib, whether he seeded it or not, he would not be too worried.’

  ‘But to share her favours …’

  ‘You are not married, are you, master?’ He grinned.

  ‘No.’ Walkelin blushed.

  ‘Ah, that’ll explain it,
then. You see, a husband like Walter Horsweard, a mature man with a young, beautiful, and hungry wife, can be one with ears, or one without. If he has ears, he must be prepared for a fight, often and often, and have a miserable spouse in his bed. If he has no ears, he enjoys peace at home, a willing wife when needed, and his friends know when to keep their tongues still.’

  Walkelin blinked at this pragmatic attitude.

  ‘Better to share and enjoy them yourself, than not receive them except unwillingly and with ear-grief all the while. No, some might mock Walter Horsweard as a cuckold, but I say he is a wise man.’ The seller of buckles nodded at his own wisdom, and then changed the subject. ‘Now, a buckle for an older lady. Your lady mother, master?’

  The price of a small buckle seemed worth it to Walkelin, for all the information gained, and he hoped that the undersheriff might make a contribution to the outlay of two silver pennies.

  Chapter Four

  ‘Well, spit it out, young Walkelin.’ Serjeant Catchpoll gave him a hefty prod in the ribs. ‘What, if anything, have you discovered?’

  Walkelin had arrived back at the abbey, clearly with news, but not sure how best to express it. He looked rather bashful.

  ‘You were right about the widow, Serjeant. She waited for a bit and then headed to a place in Colestrete, where lives Robert the Coppersmith. I made myself look like just a casual customer with a man selling buckles close by, and he was eager enough to tell me the gossip, though it seems far from idle gossip, from what I could tell.’ He paused, and the redness of his cheeks increased.

  ‘You never heard them at it, did you?’ Catchpoll looked almost shocked. After all, the woman had only just had the news of her husband’s death.

  ‘No, no,’ declared Walkelin, hurriedly, ‘but the buckle seller seemed to know what all Evesham knows, if you understand me. Mistress Horsweard visits the coppersmith regular, that seems common knowledge.’

  ‘Common enough for her husband to find out, eh?’

  ‘The suggestion is he knew but did not mind. The gossip is that he, Walter, wasn’t … Perhaps he couldn’t, not often … And she is young and … keen.’

  ‘So he accepted another man frolicking with his wife?’ Bradecote did not sound convinced.

  ‘That was what I thought, my lord. It did not sound likely, until the man gave explanation. He said better to have a happy wife who obliged when required, than a miserable, carping one who resented the occasional wifely duty. As such, it makes some sense.’

  ‘Mistress Horsweard therefore picked the coppersmith, or he picked her. He must think himself lucky.’

  ‘According to the neighbour, it might be the other way around. Robert the Coppersmith is renowned for his …’ Walkelin, caught between embarrassment and the desire to pass on a good joke, gave indication by hand signals.

  Catchpoll raised an eyebrow.

  ‘They call him Robert “Hengestgehangod”,’ whispered Walkelin.

  Hugh Bradecote’s lips twitched, and Catchpoll gave in to mirth. Eventually, wiping his eyes, he told Walkelin to continue.

  ‘Well, she left the coppersmith’s in that sort of furtive way that is so obvious you might as well put up banners, but she did not return to her house. She went to another, just outside the abbey walls. I wondered if it was her old home, from when she was a maid.’

  ‘And that would have been many moons ago,’ chortled Catchpoll, but did not say more, as Bradecote hushed him with a hand.

  ‘But I do not think it was, for a man came to the door, and they spoke there for several minutes before she entered. Now, as I reckon it, if it had been a brother, and he was too young to be her sire, he would have welcomed her straight in. He held her hands, but for a lover looked very serious. I could not make it out.’

  Bradecote rubbed his chin, thoughtfully.

  ‘What manner of building was it, Walkelin? Wealthy or poor-looking?’

  ‘Well kept. Neat. Not the best in the town, but not impoverished at all.’

  ‘Then perhaps she is torn,’ suggested Bradecote. ‘The coppersmith “hung like a stallion” might keep her warm at night, but would she trust him to be a faithful husband? Perhaps this other man is more dependable, if less exciting. She might be seeing how each reacts when they hear she is without a husband. After all, there are men who like to keep a mistress, but are most reluctant to wed the woman, even if free to do so.’

  ‘That is true enough, my lord.’ Catchpoll nodded sagely. ‘It might also be that one of them already knew the husband was dead, of course, or she might have gone to one to tell him the body was discovered.’

  ‘But then why go to the other?’ Walkelin frowned. ‘If she knew of the murder, was involved in its planning, the second visit seems odd.’

  ‘Then how about she thinks that the coppersmith might have done the deed, knowing perhaps she told him when Walter was going away and where he was headed. She goes to him to see his reaction, and thereafter goes to Master Plain-but-loyal to play the unprotected widow.’ Bradecote spoke half to himself.

  ‘If he was going into Gloucestershire he would have taken the Hampton ferry or the Bengeworth bridge.’ Walkelin was still keen to know the location where the murdered man entered the water.

  ‘Well, it was not the ferry, for the ferryman thinks he saw something green and big enough to be a corpse downstream of his ferry some four days past.’ Catchpoll added his information.

  ‘And Colestrete is close by the bridge, if the coppersmith wanted to leave his business a short while to look out for Walter Horsweard passing by.’

  ‘All very well, but the Bengeworth bridge is rather a public place to kill a man. It is overlooked by the castle, and by those at the Evesham end. It would be very risky.’ Bradecote could not see so open a killing.

  ‘Thing is, my lord, perhaps there was an opportunity, and the coppersmith had been prepared to follow Horsweard until he was away from folk. A sudden shower would have had few people gazing at the bridge since they would be getting under cover or covering their goods. Suddenly there was a chance, and it meant he could be back with his business without anyone noting his absence.’

  Bradecote considered the matter.

  ‘That is possible. I suppose I could ask at the castle, though you would have thought anyone with sense would notice a man being toppled into the river.’ He paused, and looked at Catchpoll and Walkelin. ‘Of course, he might have killed Horsweard and taken him back to the river.’

  ‘Makes no sense, though. The river always gives back what is cast in, eventually, and there could be no guarantee that it would not turn up on the Hampton bend. A body covered in branches and out of the way, let alone buried, would not be found but by chance.’ Catchpoll pulled a face. ‘I say as it was someone taking their chance when they could, and casting him into the Avon in a twinkling of an eye, not dragging him back.’

  ‘Would the killer assume that the body would just be seen as a drowning, though, not murder?’ Walkelin was concentrating.

  ‘Only if he thought we were idle or brain-addled.’ Catchpoll shook his head. ‘That wound was not obvious, but nor was it a fluke I found it. Any decent inspection of the body would see it.’

  ‘We are tying ourselves in knots here.’ Bradecote ran a hand through his hair. ‘Let us eat and rest, and in the morning we will look at this afresh. I think I will go to the castle, and you two can find out as much as possible about the Widow Horsweard and the men in her life.’

  ‘And Will Horsweard also, just to be sure, my lord.’

  ‘Him too, Walkelin. Now, food, and food that will not give me a bellyache all night. Heaven spare me from lead dumplings!’

  Fortunately for Hugh Bradecote, the abbey kitchens produced good fare, and as he was the guest of Abbot Reginald, he dined on wood pigeon with wild garlic, pease pudding, and cherries in wine. The contrast with the previous evening was stark. He did not make comment, however, knowing that churchmen could sometimes feel guilt over their regular and sustaining meals. Starvation,
even in the hungry months, was not a fear among the cloistered.

  Abbot Reginald was an interesting host, a man with a sound religious core, but pragmatic about the world. He had been effectively ‘fortifying’ the abbey with the construction of a great wall about it. There might not be any Geoffrey de Mandeville in the western counties to desecrate an abbey as had befallen Ramsey, but there was no such thing as security for a wealthy monastery in dangerous times. The abbot’s relations with William de Beauchamp were not always amicable, for the abbey lands and those of the sheriff were all too often adjacent and disputes arose, but the abbot judged men as he found them rather than by their overlord, and what he saw, and had indeed heard, of the tall, dark-haired undersheriff, inclined him to trust the man and his word.

  ‘Am I permitted to ask if you have paths that may lead to the killer of Walter Horsweard, my lord Bradecote?’ he enquired, after giving thanks for the meal.

  ‘Of course, Father, though I would say they are not clear enough paths as yet to be sure the trail leads to the culprit. We hope to find more tomorrow. I have to go to the castle on the Bengeworth bank, to see if anyone upon watch there saw a man in a green jerkin about a week since, crossing the bridge, or even falling from it.’

  ‘Falling? But if an accident—’

  ‘No, Father. I am not being clear enough. I doubt any watchman would have seen the stabbing from that distance, but perhaps he saw a man fall. I would have hoped he would have reported such a thing but …’

  ‘In that place? Forgive me, my lord, but there is little good can be said of Bengeworth Castle. The men that reside within it do so not because it is theirs to hold, but because it is their service time. A few are good, most are idle. Drunkenness and debauchery are more common than duty and diligence.’

  ‘I spent a month there, two years back. In fairness, even to the dutiful, it is not a place to inspire hard work. It is a fortification, not a castle in which to live. It is cold, miserable and rat-infested. I loathed the place, and the other vassals I served with were half the time at each other’s throats because of it and ill-temper. It was, forgive me, Father, godforsaken.’