‘Of course she did not.’
‘Yet she slipped on the steps of her own hall. Were they wet and slippery?’
‘Not especially.’
‘You see, that is what puzzles me. The lady falls on steps she could have descended with her eyes shut.’
‘Such things happen every day. Have you never tripped in your own hall?’ growled de Nouailles.
‘Yes, but mostly when my mind was elsewhere. So if she was not worried …’
‘I did not say she was not worried.’
‘Oh no, you did not, did you. You just gave me no reason why she was.’ Bradecote’s tone was not friendly.
‘No doubt what happened was a shock to her, as it would be to any lady.’
‘Enough to distract her, weeks later? A great shock.’
‘What are you saying, Bradecote?’ The lord of Harvington was losing his temper.
‘If no actual assault took place, her reaction seems excessive. If she slipped.’
‘If …?’ De Nouailles’ fists clenched. ‘It was an accident.’
‘Were you there? Did you see her fall?’
‘Yes. I tried to grab her arm, but the sleeve of her gown simply tore in my hand.’ De Nouailles shut his eyes. ‘There was nothing I could do. When I picked her up she was limp. Her neck was broken. For God’s sake, Bradecote, leave this now.’
Hugh Bradecote was unwilling to push further. There was room for doubt, but only that, and he needed corroboration. A lot would depend upon what Catchpoll, and more likely, Walkelin, could discover from the lowlier inhabitants of Harvington manor.
Walkelin was in fact doing a very good job of not being the sheriff’s man. He had poked his head around the door of the kitchen in time to see a motherly woman lifting a heavy iron cook pot from scouring.
‘Might I take that for you, Mistress?’
Walkelin, the helpful young man, stepped swiftly forward and lifted the heavy pot. The woman eyed him with approbation, and just a touch of reminiscence for when men like that wanted to help her out of a desire to gain her favours, not just an extra portion of pottage.
‘There now. I wish as I had help like you about every day, young man. Who might you be?’
‘Oh, I am the man-at-arms come along with the lord Undersheriff and his serjeant,’ he declared airily, demoting himself. ‘You know how it is when you are just left hanging about until someone expects you to be there, prepared for anything and looking as if you know what is going on, but you don’t.’
‘Indeed. Them that has power leaves us ordinary folk in the dark, often as not. It is like when the lord demands a meal when he returns unexpected, and is angry that it is thrown together from what I can find in the store and has hung long enough and a bit more.’
‘You look like a dame who is rarely caught out, Mistress.’
She coloured, and murmured that he was like all men, out for what he could get. He grinned, and gave her a smile and a slow wink.
‘Ah, Mistress, see, rarely caught out.’ He paused. ‘Must be different round here, without a lady in the hall.’
The woman sighed and shook her head.
‘Poor lady, and her so lovely. Had a lot to learn in some ways, when she wed.’ Her voice dropped as if imparting details of an unfortunate blemish. ‘She wasn’t born to it, see. Mind you, I do not begrudge her, and she never enjoyed it, for she was lonely, excepting when he was with her.’
‘He?’
‘The lord. You can see just why he was so smitten with her, but why she adored him, only heaven knows. But to be fair, she was the one person he never struck, nor rarely threatened with the lash. He is a hard man, our lord, and unfair, but his lady softened him. He even smiled when with her.’
This was clearly not a common sight, and Walkelin could believe it from the little he had seen of him.
‘So what happened to her?’
‘It was an awful accident. I think something had upset her, for she came out of the hall in tears, weeping, and him trying to soothe her, right behind. Then all of a sudden, she was falling, and though he grabbed at her arm she tumbled over and over to the bottom of the steps.’
‘You saw this?’
‘Well, only the end. I was told the start of it by the others. I came out at the shout from the lord. He was at the bottom of the steps, holding her, rocking her like a babe he was, and weeping pitiful. Never thought I would feel sorrow for the man, but I did then. He carried her back to the solar and would not let even the priest within for hours. Since then he has been dangerous. That is the only word for him. Three servants have been flogged, and after the lady’s brother came last, he beat the steward for not keeping him from his hall.’
‘He beat his own steward, for that?’ Walkelin shook his head. ‘Hard man, indeed. Must have hated the lady’s brother, though.’
‘No love lost between them, that is for sure. And Master Horsweard, him that is her brother, seems a nice enough man. He only lost his temper with the lord Brian, which is not wise.’
The woman had clearly not heard of the horse trader’s death. It might mean nothing, and yet such news should spread as flames through kindling. De Nouailles, and perhaps his steward, if he had heard of it within the hall, were keeping the knowledge of the murder to themselves. That was odd. Well, Walkelin thought it time that it was known. It could lead to interesting talk.
‘But did you not know, Mistress, that it is because of Walter Horsweard that the lord Undersheriff is here?’
He had her interest.
‘It is?’
‘Yes, for he has been killed, and his body found floating in the Avon. Looks like he was killed crossing the bridge by Offenham, after visiting here.’
‘Lord have mercy upon us and him!’ Her hands flew to her mouth. ‘What is the world a-coming to, that is what I wonder?’
Walkelin murmured agreement. He hoped his superiors would commend his letting the information about Horsweard’s death be known. If the killer was here, let him know that the law knew when, where and how, and was closer therefore, to who.
‘We live in bad times,’ the good woman shook her head, ‘what with lords and king and empress all fighting. It means evil flourishes. Poor Master Horsweard must have looked a tidy prize to some cut-throat. Always came here well dressed. In his best, I expect, so as not to make the lord Brian look down his nose more. What a good thing that Aelfric was not—’
‘And is the preparation begun for the meal, woman?’
The steward loomed in the doorway, Catchpoll just behind, and giving Walkelin a vaguely apologetic grimace.
‘In a trice, Master Steward, never you fear.’ The cook gave Walkelin a swift, twisted smile, and looked the steward in the eye. ‘The young man just gave me a hand with the pot. Best you all leave me to my work.’
The steward eyed Walkelin suspiciously, but Walkelin smiled the vacuous smile of one who never thought for himself and was content to be told how to do every menial task.
‘There is no cause for sheriff’s men to swarm all over the manor,’ grumbled the steward.
‘I would not call our Walkelin a swarm. Harmless enough, and about as bright as my horse. He gets underfoot, but no more. Come along, Walkelin, and leave the cook to her work.’ Catchpoll spoke as to an idiot.
‘Yes, Serjeant,’ responded Walkelin, looking as dim as possible.
The steward remained in the kitchen, clearly signalling that he would not have anyone speak with the sheriff’s men out of his earshot. Catchpoll ‘herded’ Walkelin into the courtyard, keeping up the impression that he was a brainless minion with a flow of basic instructions. Beneath his breath he grumbled.
‘Tried my best, Walkelin, but he grew mighty suspicious, and was close as an oyster. Any luck?’
‘Cook was useful. Missed the maid, though.’
‘Fair enough.’ Catchpoll raised his voice again. ‘You wait out here, lad, while I see if the lord Bradecote is ready to depart.’
Walkelin stood still in the middle of
the bailey, and Catchpoll went back up the steps to the hall. He heard de Nouailles’ voice, with its hoarse, jarring note, before reaching the half-open door. He did not sound in good humour.
‘You cannot trust the Church, Bradecote. Oh, not upon scripture, but the Church as landowner, as a lord. They purse their lips and fold their hands, and pretend to holiness, but they grasp and cheat like any merchant.’
‘Well, my holdings march by abbey lands but—’
‘Then beware, lest they encroach.’
‘But it is not the fault of their steward sent on their behalf. Evesham sent the Steward of Offenham, and, by all accounts, he suffered assault.’
‘Hmm. “By all accounts” means the peasant himself and that old fox in Evesham? Well, if you take their word for it, that is up to you. I deny any mistreatment.’
‘I—’ Bradecote halted as Catchpoll entered, and his relief was patent to one who knew him well.
‘Beg pardon, my lord, but I was wondering if you would be needing the man-at-arms and myself again this forenoon?’ Catchpoll sounded unusually deferential, and Hugh Bradecote noted the reference to ‘the man-at-arms’.
‘Er, yes, I wish to ride to the bridge again, Serjeant Catchpoll, but my discussion with the lord de Nouailles is at an end, so you may accompany me.’ It all sounded very like a mummers’ play to the undersheriff, but he hoped de Nouailles was too busy seething about the Abbot of Evesham to notice. He turned back to Brian de Nouailles. ‘I am sure we will have further words, my lord, at some point.’ He nodded, indicating he had said all that he wished, and turned to leave, with de Nouailles sensing something, but being unsure what it might be.
Only as they mounted and trotted out of the bailey did Bradecote heave a sigh of relief. They did not look back, and even if they had they could not have seen the figure watching them from the narrow window, high in the gatehouse.
‘I hope that was worth it. Any luck, Walkelin?’
‘I did not meet the servant girl, my lord, but the cook had some interesting things to say, in a sort of sideways way. I did not think that—’ Walkelin halted, for the serving wench was at the doorway of a cott, and bearing a large basket of washing. ‘My lord, might I have permission to dismount and—’
‘Yes.’ Bradecote’s voice matched his for urgency. ‘Dismount and give us your reins. We will take ourselves off, and you assist the washmaid. We meet back at the priest’s.’
Walkelin vaulted from the saddle, almost threw his horse’s reins over its head and handed them to Catchpoll. The riders turned aside and cantered away, leaving Walkelin to amble towards the girl with the washing, who was still talking to the woman at the door.
‘Coming along nicely, is our Walkelin, my lord. You should have seen him playing stupid in the manor. Did it a treat he did, and now he sees a chance and takes it. One day he’ll be a good serjeant, mark my words.’
Chapter Ten
It was about twenty minutes later that Walkelin strolled nonchalantly towards the church, concealing whatever excitement he felt at having been the major instrument of detection for the morning, and having had to exercise his own discretion. He felt it showed the confidence of the undersheriff and, more importantly to him, Serjeant Catchpoll, in his abilities. He found both with beakers of cider, seated on the bench before the priest’s dwelling, and looking as casual as he did.
‘Here comes Walkelin of the honeyed tongue, eh?’ grinned Catchpoll, raising his beaker. ‘How far did you get with the maid, then?’
‘Back to the manor gates, Serjeant,’ replied Walkelin, instantly.
‘Right. You can stop playing dim as December dusk, and tell us what you found from both her and the cook. Best we do it inside. Come along.’ He jerked his head towards the door.
In the privacy within, Walkelin reviewed what he had asked and heard.
‘I helped the cook with a heavy pot, and treated her like one of my aunts; just a bit cheeky, but respectful all the same. She lapped it up. First of all, I got her talking about the lady de Nouailles. She said much as the good Father Paulinus. The lady was sweet of face and manner, and, she said, lonely in her position. But she stressed she was devoted to her lord, and thought him softened by her. She also said he never raised a hand to her, as he did oftentimes to others, and shouted less. She said since her death he has been “dangerous”, and that was her word. She also said that the lady died in an accident, though she actually only saw the end, as de Nouailles shouted, but she clearly got the details from another, for she said the lady came from the hall, weeping, with her lord behind her. She slipped, and he made a grab for her arm.’
‘That part, at least, de Nouailles told me, but nothing of weeping,’ interjected Bradecote.
‘Aye, well the cook saw him at the bottom of the steps, with his wife in his arms, and weeping himself. She said her neck was broke, but I do not know if that is what she heard rather than saw. De Nouailles carried her back and apparently would not let even the priest into the solar for some hours, but stayed alone with the corpse, distraught.’
‘Mayhap that was so, but there are opportunities there, my lord.’ Catchpoll sounded grim.
‘I can see them, Catchpoll.’ The undersheriff dragged a hand through his hair. ‘If she was not actually dead, but merely knocked senseless, all he had to do was bewail that she was dead, carry her indoors and break her neck or simply suffocate her, in the solar. They might appear different to us, but after a few hours, and with him visibly distressed to distract … Yes, he could have killed her easily enough, even if he did not engineer the fall, and it was an accident in part.’
‘That is what I thought, my lord.’ Walkelin wished to continue his narrative. ‘I then spoke of the lady’s brother. The cook was clear he and de Nouailles did not get on, but talked of him in the present, for she had no idea he was dead. Came as a shock to her, it did.’
‘Did it indeed, Walkelin? Well, there’s a thing.’ Catchpoll raised an eyebrow.
‘I took it upon myself to tell the woman that he was murdered, and was found in the river, but had gone in at the bridge after leaving here. I thought it might prove useful if it became the topic on the lips of all, and if the killer is in the manor, they will know we know more about the death. I did right?’
‘You did right, Walkelin.’ Catchpoll did not wait for Bradecote to answer, which drew a frown from the undersheriff, though he did not interrupt.
‘That was almost when you arrived with the steward, Serjeant, but as he came in she said something else, something that was cut off short as if the steward was very keen she should say nothing more.’
‘What did she say?’
‘I kept her words in my head exact, my lord. She said, “What a good thing that Aelfric was not …” And then halted.’ Walkelin paused, mulling over the scene. ‘It might be nothing, and yet somehow I think it has a meaning.’
‘Might be almost anything, as you say, but it would be useful to speak to this Aelfric and find out what or where he was not, that afternoon.’ Catchpoll sucked his teeth.
‘Which is where the maid with the washing comes in, my lord,’ declared Walkelin, with aplomb. His superiors stared at him in surprise and expectation.
‘She does?’ Bradecote found his voice.
‘Yes, my lord. I got talking to her, casually enough, about missing her in the kitchens, and how the cook had spoken of the lady de Nouailles’ death. She told me that she had seen the accident herself. Her version tallies with that of the cook, and I dare say it was she who told her of the start of it. She confirms that the lady was agitated, weeping, even fending off her lord, who was trying to take her arm. That was when she fell.’
‘No hint of her being pushed, though?’ Bradecote was concentrating, imagining the scene.
‘None, my lord. The girl thinks she fell because she was off balance, pushing him away, and because she was distressed. She said the lord almost fell after her, so swift was he, but too late. The lady was in a crumpled heap at the bottom of the
steps. He picked her up into his arms, wailed, and buried his face in her hair. Everyone present held back. He stayed there, rocking, some minutes, then carried her up the steps and into the hall. All she knows thereafter is that not even the priest or steward was given access to the solar for hours after, and since then he has been like, she says, “a soul in torment”. I think her a bit fanciful about that.’
‘What had he said to distress her so, I wonder?’ murmured Catchpoll to himself.
‘And what did she tell you about Aelfric?’ enquired Bradecote.
‘Ah yes, my lord, I got on to Walter Horsweard’s visits. It seems he visited a week or so before the lady died, and was closeted with her some hours. The wench says the lady had been pale and hollow-eyed from the time of the attack by Thomas the Clerk, but she said she never saw her walking stiffly, as if bruised or harmed. Anyway, Horsweard returned a few weeks after the lady’s death, and in anger. He called the lord some names for not letting her kin know of her death or letting them be at her burial. That was public. Then they argued in private some time before Horsweard left in a hurry, with the lord threatening to have him whipped if he came to the manor again.’ Walkelin frowned a moment. ‘It is my belief he, de Nouailles, likes seeing a good whipping.’ He sniffed. ‘The girl was clearly surprised when Horsweard returned after that, again a week or so later. She saw him, in that green jerkin, and the steward let him into the hall, after a short interchange between them. The steward did not want Horsweard causing a commotion in the bailey. He had been yelling about how he owed it to his sister, and it was de Nouailles’ fault. He was in the hall a while, then came out alone, mounted his horse and left, grim-faced. De Nouailles did not this time follow with threats.’
‘And where does Aelfric come into this story?’
‘He doesn’t, according to the girl. But that is not saying as he is not important to us. I told her how Horsweard died. She was wide-eyed and caught by interest mixed with a little fear. I told her the cook had said that it was fortunate Aelfric had not gone the same way, guessing, I admit. She nodded. Seems Aelfric is the steward’s nephew. Thinks a lot of himself, according to her. But he was sent off to one of his lord’s Warwickshire manors that day.’
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