Vale of Tears

by Sarah Hawkswood

  ‘Which probably means he gooses her when he thinks he can get away with it,’ interposed Catchpoll, sagely.

  ‘Er … Yes, well … That day, de Nouailles sent Aelfric off to one of his other holdings to the north, and then on to a manor of his in Warwickshire. The maid did not know which one. She said that Aelfric is a young man keen to show his lord he is even more his man than his uncle, Steward Leofwine. He has not returned. I thought that interesting.’

  ‘You are right there, Walkelin. Did she say what he was wearing?’

  ‘That was my last question, my lord, as we reached the gates.’ Walkelin looked glum. ‘There she failed me. She could not recall what he was wearing. She did say, though, that he rides a chestnut horse, a stocky one.’

  ‘That is something. It is certainly very suspicious. Pity about no knowledge of a cap, but it is enough to take further. It would be even more useful to find out where Aelfric was sent, and indeed if he went there.’

  ‘I doubt we will find any information from within the manor itself now. That steward is going to see to it all know not to speak with us.’ Catchpoll was thoughtful.

  ‘But Father Paulinus could tell us about Aelfric, and perhaps even if he often wears a cap.’ Walkelin was more optimistic.

  ‘Trouble is, this time of year, a man would be sensible enough wearing a cap if going on a journey.’ Catchpoll sucked his teeth.

  Father Paulinus entered, carrying a small sack, and looked questioningly at the sheriff’s men.

  ‘It seems my prayers for divine aid have not been heard. You look quite cast down. Has your hunt lost the scent all of a sudden?’

  ‘Not exactly, Father. We know where to sniff, but there are so many scents they become muddled, and now we think we cannot cast about there again.’ Catchpoll grimaced.

  ‘Ah. The manor is not a place where talk is free; a very closed place it is.’

  ‘Father, can you tell us about the people within it? Not de Nouailles, but the ordinary folk, to give us a picture.’ Hugh Bradecote did not like deceiving the kindly cleric, but he thought asking him to tell them which were most likely to have committed murder would not get a response. ‘And is it true that de Nouailles would not let even you into the solar to pray over the body of his wife until sometime after the accident?’

  ‘That is true enough. I was called for straight away, though it was a while before I was found. When I got there, Leofwine, the steward, he was in quite a fuss, for the solar door had been barred from inside. I think he feared the lord had taken his own life to lie cold with his wife. But saints be praised he did eventually let us in.’

  ‘And the lady? Was she cold?’ Catchpoll queried.

  ‘Not cold, but cool.’ The priest sighed. ‘I look upon death often. I see it defeated by faith. Dying can be hard; death is easy. She had departed the body some time since. He had closed her eyes but not laid her as for burial, but on her side, her hands, as if in prayer, beneath her cheek, her body slightly curled up. His first words were that she was sleeping, though I know he knew otherwise than his heart told him.’

  ‘I told him we must prepare her for sleep until resurrection, for the stiffness was beginning. He was reluctant, and would let none but himself touch her.’

  ‘Her neck was broken.’

  ‘I did not touch her, as I say, but it seemed so. When he moved her, it did not look quite as usual, if you understand.’

  ‘Yes, we understand, Father.’ Bradecote spoke gently. ‘But on to the living. Tell us about the manor folk who put up with Brian de Nouailles’ foul temper.’

  Father Paulinus managed a small smile, and then started.

  ‘Oh, but first I must send these to Nesta, who has offered to cook tonight as the Widow Thorn has her youngest teething and fractious. One of my flock is adept with a slingshot. He got two wood pigeon for me. It is two between three, but …’

  ‘Between four, Father.’

  ‘Oh no, I will content myself with pottage. Now, if you will wait …’

  ‘Tell me where to deliver them, Father, and I will take them,’ offered Walkelin, holding out his hand.

  The priest smiled his thanks and gave directions. Walkelin went out, but returned only a very few minutes later, breathing slightly fast, having obviously run upon his errand. Father Paulinus was talking about Leofwine, the steward.

  ‘His father and his father’s father were steward before him. If anyone understands Brian de Nouailles, other than his late wife, it is Leofwine, and he does his best to guard his lord from things that would anger him. A devoted and loyal retainer, better than de Nouailles deserves, is the steward, though like master, like man in some ways. A hard man is Leofwine.’

  ‘Will his own son succeed him as steward?’ Bradecote had a good idea of the answer, but thought it an easy progression to Aelfric.

  ‘Alas no. His wife and babe died years back, and he never wed again. I think that is what set him upon his course to be without the softer feelings of a man. He has a nephew, though, and is preparing him for the service.’ Father Paulinus frowned. ‘As a man of God I should be in charity with all, but Aelfric, for that is his name, is hard to like, for he is cold without need. Leofwine lost much, and coped by turning in upon himself, but Aelfric has never had misfortune to make him as he is. When he looks at you it is as if he sees stone not flesh. He has no feelings for others, I fear. Even his uncle he seems to tolerate rather than respect. Brian de Nouailles is not a good man, and his passions are too strong, but Aelfric lacks any passion at all.’

  ‘We have not seen him,’ commented Catchpoll.

  ‘No. He is away. Sometimes the lord sends him with messages to his other holdings in Warwickshire, though usually he returns in a few days. I have not seen him at Mass for over a week now. I hope he has not suffered an accident upon the road.’

  ‘I suppose he is tall and lanky, like his uncle,’ remarked Walkelin, glancing at Catchpoll, whose eyes narrowed in approval.

  ‘No, no. He takes after his father, who was even a little shorter than most.’

  Asking about headwear seemed a little too pointed, so Walkelin asked no more questions about Aelfric, and let the priest describe his other parishioners within the manor. They were of no interest to them as individuals, but it built a picture of the atmosphere within. Bradecote found it totally alien to that of his own manor.

  Father Paulinus went to say the noontide office, and the sheriff’s men stood in the little church to hear it, thinking it a courtesy, and because thinking actually did become clear with the Latin cadences in the background. The three men took different paths of thought, but this was good, since it prevented them becoming focussed upon one thing only. They emerged into the sunlight, blinking slightly, and the priest went to labour among his flock. The showery April sky had resolved into an expanse of cloudless blue, and only the crisp bite in the breeze reminded them of the month.

  ‘My lord, may I ask a question?’ Walkelin was frowning, and it was not to shield his eyes from the brightness.

  ‘Asking questions is part of your job, Walkelin. Ask away.’

  ‘What are we investigating most, the murder of Walter Horsweard, or the death of the lady de Nouailles, which is not definitely a killing? We seems to have lots of pieces, but they come from different pots, so to speak, and it muddles me, sorting them.’

  ‘We are …’ Bradecote looked at Catchpoll, realising it had become a knot.

  ‘Walter Horsweard was murdered. We are hunting his killer. The killer comes from here, without doubt, unless it was a passing madman, and such would kill others, not just one man and carry on blameless through life. Most folk here did not know Horsweard. The only one with even dislike of him was de Nouailles. If de Nouailles did not kill him himself, and he does not fit the description of the killer, then he ordered it. We therefore have to find out why he wanted Horsweard dead. Obvious answer is that Horsweard threatened to tell everyone he had murdered his wife.’

  ‘Are we sure he did, though? He might have
, but might just as easily be the distraught husband he claims to be?’ Bradecote muttered. ‘The more I hear, the more he sounds a nasty piece of work who happened to love his beautiful and adoring wife. Yes,’ he raised his hand as Catchpoll opened his mouth to speak, ‘I know you will say his behaviour was odd at her death, but if he did kill her as she lay unconscious, there was plenty of time before the priest arrived. Locking everyone outside for hours, laying her as he did, sits better as the man lost in grief.’ Bradecote shook his head. ‘I no longer think he killed her, but he did have Horsweard killed, and we have no motive left at all.’ He rubbed his chin in thought.

  ‘I think,’ announced Catchpoll, ‘that we have got too dizzied by this place, by everything in it. It is like swimming in a cook pot; you keep banging your head on the side. As Walkelin says, we have pieces, but perhaps we are putting them together wrong.’

  ‘Then we have to try and separate them again, look at each, and make a new “pot”?’

  ‘That is what I am thinking, my lord. Why not head to the river, by that mill de Nouailles is so keen to keep, and think away from the village and manor? And we need to ask Father Paulinus if he can tell us how many manors de Nouailles has in Warwickshire.’

  ‘We forgot that, yes. Walkelin, you find the good Father, and ask him how many, and where. Meet us by the mill on the bank opposite Offenham.’

  ‘Yes, my lord.’

  He left, glad to be doing something. His head ached with thinking. He found Father Paulinus, habit kirtled up halfway to his knees to avoid the damp soil, giving thanks for the sprouting of green along his strips in the wheat field to the north of the manor. Father Paulinus was a man who tended his crops with prayer as well as labour. It did not take long to find out what the priest knew of de Nouailles’ Warwickshire holdings, and Walkelin set off, skirting the village, to find the lord Undersheriff and Serjeant Catchpoll. He did not expect to find the servant girl whose washing he had carried.

  The mill that Judhael de Nouailles had built from the abandoned construction planned by Evesham Abbey was well made and neatly kept. Bradecote and Catchpoll did not enter, but stopped short to sit themselves upon the warmed verdure, which gave off the smell of new-sprung grass and lifted their spirits. The Avon flowed past them, ignoring the troubles of men, and Catchpoll had to fight off the urge to think with his eyes shut.

  The two men set out the facts that were known, the things that were probably true, and the things they just felt were true.

  ‘Trouble is, when you throw them together, they falls naturally into the shape we made of them, my lord.’

  ‘Which means we are either missing vital parts, which turn it into something else, like the lip that makes a jug, or we—’ Bradecote stopped as a horse came towards them at some speed. He recognised de Nouailles, and the man’s expression was not the usual disagreeable, but positively thunderous. He vaulted from his horse even before it had been hauled to a halt, and confronted Bradecote, chest heaving.

  ‘So this is the benefit of law is it?’ he yelled. ‘You come to a peaceful manor, accuse me of killing my beloved wife, and presumably also her brother, since you are so interested in his demise, and while you are here one of my servants is brutally murdered. Fine protection the law is, Bradecote.’

  ‘Murdered?’ Bradecote looked stunned. ‘Who? How?’

  ‘A wench from my kitchens. I do not recall the name, and how is easy. She was raped and strangled in a field not five hundred paces from the manor gates. She has been carried back on a hurdle.’ He sneered at the undersheriff. ‘But do not be concerned, for we have the killer.’

  ‘You have?’ Bradecote was still trying to get to grips with the news.

  ‘Yes indeed, for it was your man that did it!’

  Chapter Eleven

  ‘That cannot be true.’ Bradecote shook his head.

  ‘You just do not want it to be true. He was found by the body, and he was seen plying her with his false words but an hour beforehand.’ De Nouailles almost spat the words.

  ‘He was speaking to her upon my express instruction, if it was the wench who brought washing in to the manor before noon.’

  ‘And he found the body. That is no crime.’ Catchpoll shrugged.

  ‘Then why did he admit it? Answer me that.’

  ‘You are saying Walkelin admitted rape and murder?’ Catchpoll could not keep the incredulity from his voice.

  ‘He was heard to say, by my steward, who found him kneeling by the corpse, “It is my fault she is dead”. What further proof do you need, Law-man?’ De Nouailles was almost mocking.

  Catchpoll’s eyes narrowed to slits.

  ‘Much more than you could ever provide,’ he snarled. ‘Walkelin would blame himself, aye, because he would see that talking to the girl might have put her in peril with the man in Harvington who killed Walter Horsweard. He has a soft heart still. It is not saying he killed her.’

  ‘You will not find Horsweard’s killer here.’ There was an arrogance to de Nouailles’ tone, a bravado, that Bradecote longed to choke from him.

  ‘Nor will you find the maid’s killer in Walkelin, de Nouailles. He is the lord Sheriff’s man and upon his business.’

  ‘And on my land. You think my peasants will sit by idle as the law protects its own from the penalties for foul misdeeds? We will have justice, one way or another. All it takes is for my steward to swear oath that he found your man upon the girl’s poor, innocent body, “stealing her scarf”, and I hang him for theft and common assault. It is my right, and simple folk will believe what is told well. I will hang him tomorrow.’

  ‘You use your rights beyond all that the King’s Justice permits. Murder, rape, aye, and serious assault, are not crimes covered by your jurisdiction.’ Bradecote was outraged. Wrong as it might be, he could see how de Nouailles, coming upon the clerk with his wife, might act in passion, though why he did not simply take his sword to him in her defence and then report the matter to the sheriff he did not see. De Beauchamp would have said the man had the right to defend his lady’s person and honour in a trice. He remembered how close he had been to killing a man who had thought to molest his Christina, when he had not yet right to call her his. Here again de Nouailles was seeking to use seigneurial rights to deal with a case that belonged to the higher authority. ‘You are deciding guilt without evidence or indeed a real confession, without defence. It means all you have to do is accuse a man of a crime you can hang him for, whether he has committed a crime or not.’

  De Nouailles said nothing, but his eyes glittered.

  ‘You no more think him guilty than we do,’ growled Catchpoll.

  ‘No?’ De Nouailles smiled, triumphantly. ‘But you cannot prove me wrong, nor him innocent.’

  Catchpoll was so tensed that Bradecote thought he might lunge at de Nouailles’ throat. He put out a restraining hand, and looked de Nouailles in the eye.

  ‘Walkelin is the lord Sheriff’s man, and de Beauchamp knows him well by character. He would no more believe in his guilt than we do. If you hang, or harm, him, then William de Beauchamp will see you keep no yard of this manor, and when truth is known of all these things, there will be no mercy.’

  ‘Mercy is for the weak. I am not weak.’ De Nouailles climbed back upon his horse, wheeled about and cantered away.

  ‘My lord.’ Catchpoll’s voice had an edge of worry Bradecote had never heard before.

  ‘Yes, Catchpoll. How fast and far can you run?’

  ‘You lead, I’ll follow, my lord.’

  In truth, Catchpoll, limited by length of leg and by age, did very well, but staggered into the village a good hundred and fifty yards behind the undersheriff. Bradecote made for the priest’s house and flung open the door without ceremony. Father Paulinus was within, and turned in surprise to see Bradecote, chest heaving, and leaning against the doorpost for support.

  ‘Father, I bring grim news, but I need your help swiftly if one tragedy is not to be followed by another.’

  ‘What is
it?’

  Briefly, and between gasps, Bradecote told him of the cruel murder of one of his parishioners, and the threat to Walkelin. Father Paulinus went pale and crossed himself.

  ‘Walkelin is innocent. He spoke to the girl at my command, and then he came to you in the field. I am surprised you were not called from there to the scene.’

  ‘A child came for me, almost as Walkelin left. He was heading south of the manor and I went to the north. A babe was born early this morning, before its time, I think, for it is a small scrap of life. The parents feared it might die without baptism and the chance of heaven, so I did not linger. I gave the sacrament and left all in the disposition of God.’

  ‘I would you had taken the other route, for Walkelin’s sake, and found him before the steward did so.’

  ‘Leofwine found him? How odd. I saw Leofwine as I went to the wheat field. He was going into the manor, looking thoughtful. I asked him if all was well, and he said the lord de Nouailles was in a foul temper and no doubt he would spend the better part of the afternoon keeping him from flaying the hide of one who ought to know better than approach him in his ire. I did not think he would be outside the walls again today.’

  Catchpoll, now arrived and with head bent and hands on knees, heard the last phrases. He grunted, but was incapable of words.

  ‘That might be significant later, Father, but de Nouailles is prepared to have the steward swear an oath that Walkelin was caught in the act of theft, and will hang him, without a shred of evidence, to make himself look authoritative, and perhaps even conceal the real culprit. The wench is in God’s hands alone now, Walkelin may yet be in yours.’

  ‘In mine, my lord?’

  ‘If Walkelin is held in the manor, where would he be kept?’