Vale of Tears

by Sarah Hawkswood

  ‘You come in good time, my lord. Your efforts have been rewarded?’ He smiled up at them.

  ‘We do think we have made progress. Almost certainly, Walter Horsweard was killed upon the bridge by Offenham. He was seen upon it, and then … not seen.’ Bradecote smiled back.

  The priest crossed himself and sighed.

  ‘Such evil as men do, and yet we were made in the image of God. How we are fallen.’

  ‘We can but do our best as we see it, though we are all indeed fallen, Father.’

  ‘Indeed so. Now, as to your mounts, I have no stable myself, but there is room where the plough oxen are stalled, and I keep my mule, and I have arranged for them to be sheltered there. I will show you the place.’

  He led them to a building, and was quite surprised that Hugh Bradecote remained to see his own horse comfortable, rather than merely commanding Walkelin to see to it for him. He therefore went home alone, and the widow who had made the pie came and fussed, knowing it would be fed to so high-and-mighty a figure as the lord Undersheriff. By the time they entered the priest’s house, there was an enticing smell from the hearth, mingling with the smell of warm herbed bread.

  ‘We are very grateful for your hospitality, Father.’ Bradecote was conscious that in his generosity, Father Paulinus risked the anger of Brian de Nouailles.

  ‘Oh no, please. I need no gratitude. Indeed, it is Widow Fisher here who deserves thanks, for it is she who has given us good fare.’

  The widow blushed and curtseyed, and murmured so quietly that her words were lost. Bradecote thanked her and declared, in perfect truth, that her cooking made their mouths water with its delicious smells. Thinking back to what they had endured at Fladbury Mill, he only hoped the taste was as good as the promise. When the meal was served, they discovered that the odours did indeed not lie, and it was a very contented and replete threesome who sat about the priest’s fire as the evening shadows crept into every corner.

  ‘We spoke to the Steward of Offenham, Father. He has had good cause to dislike Brian de Nouailles. He says he was thrown down the hall steps when he came on Abbot Reginald’s business.’

  ‘Ah, the mill, you must mean he came about the mill.’ Father Paulinus shook his head. ‘I have known Father Abbot many years, for I took my vows in Evesham before being called to minister to my flock of souls, and I knew him before he was head of the house. He is a good and honest man. Now, you may say that of course he is, simply because he is a monk, but I am not so blinded by the cloister that I do not see some who are tonsured as being less than holy. It happens, even within a House of monks.

  ‘I recall that the old lord, Judhael de Nouailles, made agreement with the abbey about the mill that had never been finished, the one opposite to Offenham, when his own burnt down. It came before Chapter. The details I forgot, for what interest had I in such things, as a young man full of religious zeal? It all seemed a bit too worldly to think of it. Ah, I was very young in wisdom. Anyway, I do not know what was agreed, but am sure that if Abbot Reginald swears no document exists but for the one leasing the mill for two dozen years, then it is true.’

  ‘Brian de Nouailles contests that. Yet how can he do so if there is a document?’ Bradecote frowned.

  ‘He has another, dated some months later, and though the abbey denies its existence, he has stated he will not give up the mill. He says they have to prove his document false, and how can they do that?’

  ‘Can he read?’ Catchpoll wondered out loud.

  ‘No, that he cannot, but he got a clerk to read it for him.’ Father Paulinus sighed. ‘He said he would not trust me because I was of that House of Benedictines and monks looked after their own. He only had what he says his father told him of the agreement, until it was read out to him. And there is another coincidence. About four months since, a man I had not seen in nigh on a score of years came through the village. He was in some need, poor fellow. Once he had been a Brother of Evesham, but there had been some problem, after I left to come here, and he left the order. He told me there had been accusations from one brother, which he was unable to refute except by one man’s word against the other, and the other brother had been believed. Since that time, he took work as he could, scribing for any who paid him. He asked if the lord might have employment for him, and at most times that would have been unlikely. Yet he came just when Brian de Nouailles did need a man to read the vellum for him. Thomas was accorded more courtesy than most who enter the manor, at the first.’

  ‘At the first?’

  The priest sighed and looked sorrowful.

  ‘Alas that he came here. I do not know what it was, as I said, that made Thomas leave the cloister, but I fear now it was dealings with a woman. You see, he saw the lady de Nouailles, and his mind was turned by her beauty. The evils of lust poisoned him, and he …’ He paused.

  ‘And?’

  ‘The lord came home from hunting and found Thomas in the solar, attempting to force his … attentions upon the lady.’

  ‘Nothing was said to the lord Sheriff.’ Catchpoll sounded surprised.

  ‘There was no need. It was dealt with. The lord of Harvington has right of infangentheof here. Thomas was caught with the lady’s gold and amber brooch in his hand, so the lord hanged him from his walls immediately, as a thief. It was terrible, but the law has long accepted justice in the moment, and you can see why Brian de Nouailles reacted as he did, even if the law would want the case to be a plea of the King. He spared his wife the ignominy of making presentiment before a court, and there was no doubt to the guilt. The punishment was no different.’

  ‘Was the lady harmed?’ Bradecote asked.

  ‘In body, not so as one saw. But I think her spirit was sore afflicted. It made her sad and nervous, poor lady. I think she blamed herself, because her beauty had driven Thomas to succumb to wrong.’

  ‘Father,’ Catchpoll frowned, ‘I must ask. Is there any possibility that the lady de Nouailles was so distressed by what had happened that she brought about her own end?’

  ‘None.’ The answer came swiftly. ‘She could not have been buried in holy ground else.’

  Bradecote and Catchpoll exchanged glances. The priest was sincere, but he was a good, generous man, and they could not see him keeping a woman he had described in glowing terms for her piety from a grave in consecrated earth without irrefutable evidence that she had taken her own life.

  ‘We understand that, Father,’ murmured Hugh Bradecote, ‘but Serjeant Catchpoll is right. We needed to ask. The most godly can be driven to commit the sin of self-slaughter if their minds are overwhelmed. I have sometimes thought it is the madness that commits the deed, not the person themselves.’

  Father Paulinus considered the undersheriff’s words.

  ‘I have no reason, none, to say she did anything but slip upon a step. You speak such thoughts as I would account true, but the Church is strict upon this, whatever feelings an individual might have. If there is doubt, I have given the deceased the benefit of it in my time, but if there is none there is nothing I can do but pray for them, and see them buried outside the churchyard boundary. In the lady de Nouailles’ case, though I know she was troubled and distressed, I never doubted at all. You see she blamed her own looks, but her concern was for her husband. She loved him totally, and, with little understanding of the law or theology, feared that his reaction would be seen as murder, if not by the King’s Justice, then in the eyes of God, because he hanged Thomas in anger.’

  ‘She told you this?’

  ‘Not exactly, but she asked about the judgement of those that judged, and said that her lord was not a man given to considering his actions, and also he had been very angry with Thomas the Clerk. Had she said these things in confession, I could not tell you of them, my lord, you must know that. The sanctity of confession is not broken by death. I am telling you what is the only reading I can make of her comments to me, outside of the confessional.’

  ‘Is there anything that she did say, which we may not
know?’

  ‘I cannot tell you that. I am sorry.’ The priest shook his head. ‘You must think me obstructive, my lord, but I answer to a higher authority even than the law.’

  With which the law had to be content, though it might wonder. Indeed, whilst Walkelin slept soundly, both Bradecote and Catchpoll lay in the darkness, considering permutations, trying to make disparate facts into a cohesive whole, and one in which Brian de Nouailles was central.

  Chapter Nine

  The morning brought the opportunity for the sheriff’s men to discuss their nocturnal cogitations. Father Paulinus went to say the first office of the day, and then to feed his fowls. Catchpoll, Bradecote and a bleary Walkelin sat in the warm dimness of the little dwelling. There was a silence, almost as if they had commenced with prayer.

  ‘So.’

  ‘So, my lord?’ Walkelin was perplexed.

  ‘So, indeed. What the lord Bradecote means, Walkelin, is what did yestereve tell us in the solving of the murder?’ Catchpoll’s smile of understanding was broadened by the knowledge that Walkelin was half a step behind in thought.

  ‘Which murder?’ Walkelin enquired, and before his head could be bitten off by his serjeant, qualified his question. ‘I mean, are we still only investigating the murder of Walter Horsweard, or are we also investigating the death of the lady de Nouailles?’

  Catchpoll’s features relaxed from the growl that had been forming.

  ‘Technically, we still have but one murder, but if there is a second, it sort of explains the first.’ Catchpoll pulled a ‘thinking’ face. ‘We could not see a motive for de Nouailles wanting Horsweard dead, as opposed to sent packing. Well, if the horse dealer was accusing him of murder, and especially if he had grounds, then if he had killed the wife there would be good reason for him to kill the brother-in-law if he threatened him.’

  ‘There are a lot of “ifs”. You are saying, then, that de Nouailles’ act as the grieving husband is all show, and he did not love her?’ Bradecote was undecided on this matter.

  ‘Well love and hatred are close bedfellows. One can become the other very swiftly.’ Catchpoll gave a look that spoke of many years’ experience of this occurring.

  ‘So he stopped loving her because …?’ Walkelin looked confused.

  ‘He could not bear the thought that she had been sullied by the clerk, perhaps. We have only the report that she did not show evidence of harm. So there were no bruises visible.’ Catchpoll shrugged. ‘That does not mean much. What if the clerk was found to be doing the deed? The noble lord reacts out of instinct, and then does not want to be shamed by his wife’s shame. That festers. He does not want to touch her, and having taken out his ire upon the clerk, he starts to blame her for not putting up a better resistance, perhaps even imagines she did not resist at all.’

  ‘If she had met the man by consent, she would have confessed, and the priest, though he would not tell us of it, would not wax so lyrical about her virtues.’ Bradecote was staring at the red embers of the fire.

  ‘I said “imagines”, my lord. I doubt the lady was anything but a good and virtuous dame.’

  ‘That is all well and good, Serjeant Catchpoll, but if de Nouailles killed his wife by pushing her down the steps, why are there no witnesses?’ Walkelin did not look convinced.

  ‘Ah, young Walkelin, who is to say there are no witnesses? It might be that we simply have not found them yet. If de Nouailles is feared, it might yet be a secret, for all we thought otherwise.’

  ‘Feared enough to keep murder secret?’ Walkelin sounded dubious.

  ‘Did you see the man with one hand as we entered the village yesterday? What odds he suffered de Nouailles’ summary justice for a misdemeanour?’

  ‘If − and I stress this “if” − you are right, Catchpoll, we need to speak to the manor underlings, and without their lord looking on, or within earshot of any who might report their words for the sake of favour.’ Bradecote sounded as if this was an almost impossible feat to achieve.

  ‘Well, there’s ways and means, my lord. What we need, primarily, is a diversion.’ Catchpoll grinned, slowly, his eyes fixed upon his superior. ‘De Nouailles will not be watching his minions if he is busy fending off questions from the only one here with rank to demand being seen. Meanwhile I speak to the steward, who will no doubt keep things close, and young Walkelin,’ he gazed at his apprentice serjeant benignly, ‘puts his ferreting skills to use, starting with that wench he was giving the bright eye to yesterday.’

  ‘I wasn’t, Serjeant. I was just making myself agreeable. You said it was important to get close to those who might have information.’

  ‘She looked like she wouldn’t mind getting mighty close to you, and I am not so sure you would remember the questions if she did.’

  ‘I know my duty, Serjeant.’ Walkelin blushed, but stuck out his chest and gave a fair approximation of a virtuous sheriff’s officer.

  ‘I am sure you do, Walkelin,’ Bradecote intervened, his voice serious but with a wry smile on his face, ‘and I am sure you had no other motives but duty.’

  Catchpoll guffawed, then grinned, but his smile faded as he considered what needed to be discovered.

  ‘The thing is, lad, that you are more likely to find out information than we are. Make yourself agreeable, not just with the wench, but any you can, while you can.’

  ‘Which means a delay in sending you to Evesham to get the description of the horse, but this chance may not come again. Oh, and Catchpoll, what do you suggest I ask that will occupy de Nouailles, but keep him from setting his hound on me?’ Bradecote raised an eyebrow.

  ‘I reckon as you are safe from teeth marks, my lord, however little he likes your presence, and whatever you ask. Rank is rank, after all.’

  ‘My only real concern is how long I can act as this diversion without him guessing it is but air. Do not let yourself get dragged into mere rambling about his harsh treatment, Walkelin. Listen, but steer the conversation also.’

  ‘I will do that, my lord, as best I can.’ Walkelin felt the burden of responsibility upon his shoulders, but was rather excited by it.

  ‘Best we make a start then.’ The undersheriff got up, and they went about their task as Father Paulinus returned, brushing dirt from his habit. ‘We shall almost certainly trespass upon your hospitality again tonight, Father.’

  ‘No trespass, my lord. You are very welcome.’ The priest smiled.

  The gatekeeper seemed even less keen to admit them than the day before, and his hostility was obvious. It seemed to spring less from a devotion to his lord than idleness, but Catchpoll decided that any conversation with him would be a waste of breath, and made no effort to be amiable.

  ‘If he wants to be curmudgeonly, he’ll find I do it better,’ mumbled Catchpoll, hawking, and then spitting into the dirt. ‘And here comes Longshanks the Steward.’

  The steward was stony-faced, and his greeting frosty. Catchpoll countered it by being at his most cheery and affable, which took the man by surprise.

  ‘Good morrow to you, Master Steward. Yes, we are back again, and in your way, no doubt of it. But the lord Undersheriff has more questions for your lord, and where he goes, we go too, so here we are, under your feet.’

  Catchpoll being convivial was almost more worrying than him being morose. He clapped the steward upon the back and began propelling him towards the hall steps. Hugh Bradecote followed them, and Walkelin veered off to lounge by the door of the kitchens, as though he were no longer on duty.

  The hall was still gloomy and shuttered, and there was a smell of stale ale to it that Bradecote guessed the lady de Nouailles would never have countenanced. His Christina would have had the shutters opened, the rushes changed, and herbs scattered. It spoke of the lack of a woman. This, he thought, could have been himself, his hall, except his had a babe within it, demanding, but making one look forward not back. He felt sympathy for Brian de Nouailles, sympathy that withered when the man emerged from his solar. He looked sullen, as if
he had lost himself to wine the previous night and was paying for it now. That happened, but there was also a glint in the eyes that might be masked, were he not too over-hung to disguise it. Bradecote had seen that before, in men who enjoyed inflicting pain in others. If his lady had roused him to jealousy or dislike, he pitied her.

  ‘Back again, my lord. I ask myself why?’ Brian de Nouailles snarled.

  ‘I am glad you are in the mood for questions, de Nouailles, for I have several.’ Bradecote tried the same cheerful manner as Catchpoll. ‘When we were here yesterday, you did not mention the circumstances of your wife’s death.’

  ‘It has nothing to do with Horsweard’s death, and I told you I did not wish to discuss it.’ He nodded curt dismissal to his steward, and Catchpoll withdrew also, content that the lord Bradecote had opened the questioning by placing de Nouailles off balance.

  ‘So you did, but I do.’

  ‘Then you are in for disappointment, Bradecote.’

  ‘I can ask all day. To start with, why was the lady de Nouailles in a state of low spirits and worry?’

  ‘How do I know? Women are like that sometimes. If you were married you—’

  ‘I am married. I have also lost a wife. Do not keep claiming “You cannot understand”. Was she upset after the affair with the clerk?’ Bradecote chose his words carefully.

  ‘Affair?’ De Nouailles scowled.

  ‘When he tried to be familiar with her, and you hanged him … for theft.’

  ‘I had the right.’ The scowl deepened.

  ‘I did not say that you did not. Did he actually lay hands upon her, or were you timely?’

  ‘It is none of your business, and the lady is dead.’

  ‘She is, which is why I ask.’ Bradecote did not enjoy such a line of questioning, but it was needful. ‘She was buried in holy ground, so the Church saw no reason to think she took her own life.’ He kept Father Paulinus’s name out of specifics.