Vale of Tears

by Sarah Hawkswood

‘Beneath the hall itself. There are storerooms there and the lord de Nouailles has kept prisoners there before, briefly.’

  ‘Is it barred and guarded?’

  ‘Barred outside, yes, but previously there was only a guard when he held one of the village men for what was a small theft, and then took his hand. It was not popular.’

  ‘We need … to get into the bailey first … my lord, and … you can be assured … the gatekeeper has been … ordered to keep us out.’ Catchpoll was breathing heavily through his nose.

  ‘There is a postern gate, my lord. On the north side. It has not been locked in years. I fear the youth of the manor have used it most for trysts in the meadow beyond. There has been no threat to the manor, so it was more use unlocked.’

  ‘But it will not be opened from outside,’ Catchpoll managed, still taking great gulps of air.

  ‘It could be opened from within. Father, might you get within the courtyard of the manor and unlatch the gate secretly?’ Bradecote was thinking fast. ‘I would not ask if I did not think Walkelin innocent of any evil, and in danger now. You have reason to go within, for no doubt the girl’s body has been taken there. As for no entry, they will have a struggle keeping out the Undersheriff of Worcester. Whatever de Nouailles wants to claim, there is murder, and that is the sheriff’s business.’ He turned to Catchpoll. ‘If I go in and make bustle, and Father Paulinus can get to the postern gate, you come in, slyly as you can, Catchpoll, and get our Walkelin out of his prison while I create whatever confusion is needed for distraction.’

  In less serious circumstances Catchpoll would have smiled at the thought of the undersheriff ‘creating confusion’.

  ‘Then what, my lord? Evesham?’

  Bradecote had thought of it, of course. It was the safest course, and yet the more he thought about it, the more he wanted to remain in Harvington, for crime was set upon crime now, for certain, and he did not want the perpetrator to feel they would evade the law by throwing blame upon its minions.

  ‘No. Put Walkelin in sanctuary within the church, and tell him to claim it formally. Then you guard it until Father Paulinus can return. If de Nouailles makes his accusation known as truth, the villagers will take some persuading not to act.’

  ‘Can you not simply claim Walkelin by right?’ asked Father Paulinus. ‘Since you are the law.’

  ‘Not if de Nouailles convinces others of his guilt, and if you but shout loudly enough and confidently enough you will be believed by many, Father. We need to get him out secretly, and then we find who violated and murdered the girl. There are too many deaths here, and I will have it cease.’ Hugh Bradecote was unusually grim.

  ‘If it is just, then I will help, and I see that it is so. Come, my lord, and let us free your “dove” from the clutches of the “hawk”.’

  Walkelin sat in the blackness of the windowless store, his brain reeling, and feeling rather sick. Everything had happened so fast. He had barely had the time to kneel and confirm that there was no life in the poor girl when the lanky steward and another man leading a Roman-nosed bay horse had arrived, and suddenly Walkelin found himself declaimed as a foul rapist and killer and hit so hard upon the head he had no recollection of what happened next, until he was in the darkness. His head still swam from the blow, and in the swirling images within his head, the maid’s bulging eyes accused. He felt responsible for her death. Whilst it was possible that it had been the act of some lecherous man, perhaps even one she knew, he had a feeling she had been killed for speaking with him. He knew he ought to be trying to work out what she might have told him of importance, but he could not think beyond the fact that Brian de Nouailles liked his ‘justice’ swift and summary.

  Hugh Bradecote concealed his anger and his concern well. It was vital that he did so, for ranting at the lord of Harvington would achieve nothing, and might even get Walkelin hung from the battlements as a taunt. Father Paulinus looked grave, but that was perfectly reasonable for a man called to the untimely death of one of his parishioners. That the parish priest would gain admittance to the manor was surely beyond dispute, but whether Brian de Nouailles might bar the undersheriff was open to contention. It was clear that the gatekeeper was undecided, when faced by one whom he was bound to admit and the other who had probably been proscribed. Father Paulinus stared at the man gravely.

  ‘I am come to pray over Hild’s body, and since she met a foul end, the undersheriff has the right of law to see the corpse also, Wystan. Let us in.’

  ‘But my lord said—’

  ‘The law is higher even than the instruction of your lord. As the good Father says, I must see the girl’s body. The lord Sheriff of the Shire will demand to know of this.’

  Wystan the Gatekeeper was secretly impressed that the lord Sheriff himself would be making demands about ‘his’ manor, and with further remonstrance from Father Paulinus, opened the gate, cautiously. The man of God and man of the law entered sombrely. They had reached halfway across the courtyard before Leofwine the Steward placed himself before them, grim-faced.

  ‘Your calling gives you cause to be here, Father, and glad we are of your presence in this tragedy, but he,’ and he pointed at Hugh Bradecote as if he were vermin, ‘goes no further.’

  ‘As the officer of the lord Sheriff of this shire I am here to see the body of the girl who has been found violated and murdered. Such a crime is in his remit, and the corpse must be viewed. If you deny me, then I travel to Worcester and bring William de Beauchamp in person, and a very aggrieved William de Beauchamp at that, for he holds his office of the King, and by denying me, you are denying the King’s Grace.’ Bradecote sounded calm, reasonable. Leofwine, overawed by the concept that he was infringing Royal prerogative, wavered, and then stood aside, but walked at their side to guide them to where the body lay, in an empty stall in the stables, on a board laid over two trestles.

  Bradecote wished he had Catchpoll on hand, for those gimlet eyes saw so much that ordinary men missed. He tried to think like his serjeant for a minute. The maid Hild had been comely, and rosy-cheeked. The body was a cruel travesty of that life. Father Paulinus sighed, and went down upon his knees, which creaked slightly. As he closed his eyes in prayer, the undersheriff took up one of the pale hands that lay crossed upon the stilled breast. There was no sign of anything beneath the nails, even dirt. She had been washing that day, so it was not, he thought, surprising they were clean, but she had not fought her attacker. That there had been violence towards her was not evident by anything obvious. Were it not for the lack of colour in her skin, she might have been lying there asleep. Could her attacker have delivered a blow so hard to the skull that it had stunned her so much that she had thereafter offered no resistance? There was no tearing to the bodice of her gown, and her skirts were drawn decorously close about the ankles. Bradecote knew he ought to view the corpse more intimately if the girl was violated, but to do so in the presence of the village priest seemed almost a sin. He contented himself for a minute or two by reaching behind the head and lifting it a little, to feel if her neck was broken. De Nouailles had not disclosed how she had actually been killed. There was the very beginnings of stiffening, but it was clear the neck was intact. Nor were there marks about the throat to indicate strangling.

  He spoke softly to Leofwine, as the priest chanted in Latin.

  ‘You found the girl. Was she on her face, on her back …’

  ‘On her back, of course. How else would she—’ He halted, and coloured. There were things he would not say before the priest.

  ‘And her skirts were … disordered?’

  The two men were caught, edging round the realities. The steward nodded. Father Paulinus opened his eyes, aware of constraint. He was no fool, and he also had a task to do for the living.

  ‘My lord, I will absent myself a few minutes, if you have need to discuss … matters.’

  ‘Thank you, Father.’

  He helped the priest to his feet, and with a heavy sigh, the Father brushed the hay from the
skirts of his habit, and left the stable. Undersheriff and steward faced each other over the chilling body.

  ‘The law requires that I look at the body for signs of how she died. Are there women who would remove her garments? I would have her treated with respect in death even if in life she received little.’

  ‘At the hands of your man,’ growled Leofwine.

  ‘By whoever’s hands. I am seeking here not who, but how, that the lord Sheriff might be told of what has happened here, today.’ Bradecote kept it very formal.

  ‘I will fetch the cook.’ He left the undersheriff alone and went to find the homely dame whom Walkelin had aided but the day before.

  As soon as he shut the door behind him, Bradecote took a deep breath and lifted the skirts swiftly. It would actually be less embarrassing than doing so in front of another, and he could make a cursory assessment. To his surprise there seemed no marks at all upon her lower limbs, and, from what he had learnt from Catchpoll, he had thought there would be some signs. He heard a woman’s voice and drew the clothing back into position before the cook could see. The woman had damp cheeks.

  ‘My lord, you have need of me?’

  ‘Yes. Would you remove Hild’s clothes, and give them to me, then cover her with the blanket? I must see the body to check for any marks. I will turn away while you do so.’ He sounded considerate, and not overbearing.

  The cook bit her lip and curtseyed her acquiescence. He faced the wall and listened to the sobbing, half of grief and half of exertion. After a few minutes the woman sniffed.

  ‘All’s done, my lord. Would you have me leave or stay?’

  He turned to face her. She looked a sensible dame.

  ‘Remain. I would have you see that I do my duty and nought else.’

  He inspected first the clothing. There was mud upon the back of the skirt where she had lain in the field, but no sign of blood. The front of the bodice and shift were clean, the back of the bodice as dark and muddy as that of the skirt. The shift drew his attention, for on the back there was a small but distinct tear, and blood. He studied the bodice back again and found a small rent in it.

  ‘Good Mother,’ he did not know how else to address her, ‘you see this?’

  The cook frowned, and nodded.

  ‘Poor girl.’ She did not think to question why a maid who was announced as raped had a wound to the back.

  Bradecote pulled back the blanket and rolled the body away from him to view the back. There, on the left side just below the ribs, was a small puncture wound. He was reminded of the wound in the river-sodden chest of Walter Horsweard.

  ‘Here is the wound itself, and from where it enters I doubt not it was fatal. Some small blade or awl made this. The lord de Nouailles said that the maid had been raped and murdered. That she should have been stabbed from behind is odd if that were so. What man would violate a girl then turn her onto her front and stab her?’

  ‘Does it matter, my lord?’

  ‘Yes. I see no sign that a man took her by force, but that she was indeed murdered, though not for some reason of gratification.’

  The cook did not know what gratification meant, and said nothing. Bradecote covered the body with the blanket.

  ‘The man-at-arms who spoke to you yesterday lies in your lord’s prison accused of rape and murder. Of this I have no doubt he is innocent. He spoke to her at my command before the midday meal, and his only “crime” was finding her. My duty is to keep the innocent free, and to take the guilty before the law. I do my duty.’ He spoke solemnly.

  The door opened and Father Paulinus entered, followed by the steward.

  ‘Is all that need be done, done, my lord?’

  ‘It is, Father.’

  ‘Good.’ His look was encouraging, and Bradecote prayed that their simple plan might yet work.

  ‘The maid Hild was murdered, but there is no sign that she was taken by force. She was killed by a stab wound from behind, into the heart. Tell me, Master Steward, why you decided to accuse Walkelin, the sheriff’s man, of such foul crimes simply because he was kneeling beside the body. The evidence of the innocent victim herself shows the charges as false. I wonder at you making such a charge without cause, unless of course you were close by, knowing she was dead because you killed her and were set upon denouncing whoever found the girl to deflect attention from yourself.’

  It was an accusation bound to have Leofwine vehement in his own defence, which was just what Bradecote wanted. It was as feasible an answer as to what happened as any other that presented itself, though it was pure conjecture, but the combination of outrage and fear would create a stir, one which the undersheriff hoped would draw all attention within the bailey from the incarcerated Walkelin.

  Father Paulinus pursed his lips and frowned at Leofwine with a mixture of enquiry and disappointment, which made Leofwine realise that he might truly be in a dangerous predicament. The cook, for her part, curled her lip at him.

  ‘Me?’ he cried, stepping back as if recoiling from anything so terrible.

  ‘Why not? You are free to range about the manor lands alone, while many of the villagers would be working the fields with kin and neighbour, and if they absented themselves it would be noted. Hild may never have heard or seen the man who killed her, and it was most probably a man, but even if she did, and she was stabbed as she turned away, she made no attempt at defence, so she did not see the man as a threat. Also, she was stabbed in the back, but only the back of her gown is muddied, so she was caught as she fell or collapsed, and laid that way upon the ground. All you needed to do was conceal yourself nearby,’ Bradecote was hoping that the scene of the killing provided some form of cover within view, ‘and emerge, the figure of outraged authority, when some innocent bystander found her.’ He was warming rapidly to the idea as he spoke. It really did fit as a likely sequence of events.

  ‘But why should I want to kill her?’ yelled Leofwine, as the door opened, and Brian de Nouailles stood at the threshold.

  Hugh Bradecote was relieved that his arrival might mean that he did not to have to come up with an instant answer to that question.

  ‘I gave orders that you were not permitted here,’ snarled de Nouailles. ‘I would guess you would rush to free your lecherous mongrel from justice. Get out.’

  The undersheriff stood his ground.

  ‘Firstly, I am here as the sheriff’s officer to see the victim of a crime that is far too serious for manorial justice, and do not repeat the stupid’ − and Bradecote gave a sneer of which Catchpoll would have been proud − ‘claim that you can accuse Walkelin, the lord Sheriff’s man-at-arms, of stealing a scarf and hang him summarily. There is a girl’s body here that attests to murder, and it is for murder will there be a hanging. Every man, woman and child of this manor shall know that.’

  De Nouailles ground his teeth, and looked murderous himself.

  ‘Secondly, you were loud in claiming the maid had been violated, when there is no sign of any such attack, so I ask myself whether you simply believe anything your steward tells you. She was, assuredly, murdered, but with a stab in the back, not the action of a “lecherous mongrel” but someone who either wanted her to speak no more to the law or was angered by what she might already have revealed. All this proves that Walkelin is falsely accused.’

  There was a small note of triumph in Bradecote’s voice, but even as the words left his mouth he saw a looming complication. What he said made such sense, de Nouailles might be forced to release his prisoner, and it would then look very suspicious if the prisoner was found to have escaped. He stepped towards the door, towards the fuming de Nouailles, and spoke boldly.

  ‘Come. You have no cause to hold de Beauchamp’s man. Let him out, and assist the law in finding who killed your serving wench.’

  There was a flicker in the hard eyes of Brian de Nouailles, one which Bradecote recognised from combat; it was a moment of self-doubt, of feeling beaten, and it was the moment to press home an attack. He faced the angry lord, who stepp
ed back into the courtyard before he could be set aside and lose all dignity. Bradecote strode towards the hall, announcing very loudly that the prisoner was to be released, taking charge and also, he hoped, letting Catchpoll know what was happening. As he reached the point where the door in the end of the undercroft came into view, he saw Catchpoll, in the act of unbolting the door, but stopped in mid action. Only for a fleeting second did Serjeant Catchpoll look uncomprehendingly at him. Then he paused, and declared, with a flourish worthy of trumpets, that the lord Undersheriff’s command was to be obeyed, and shot back the first of the bolts with a hard clank. Steward and lord were still caught so off balance they did not query how it should be that Serjeant Catchpoll should be already at the storeroom door, when his superior had only just made his demands known in the stable, thirty paces away.

  The second bolt clattered back, the door was swung open by Catchpoll, who spared Bradecote a glance, which the undersheriff correctly interpreted as ‘keep it up’, and the undersheriff called into the gloom.

  ‘Come out, Walkelin. There stands no charge against you.’

  Walkelin emerged into the sunlight, blinking both at the brightness and in surprise.

  ‘My lord?’

  ‘Come. We have no time for you to be loitering in storehouses like a mouse. There is the murderer of an innocent maid to hunt down.’ Bradecote sounded intentionally impersonal, as he was sure de Nouailles sounded with his own men. Here such a manner would be understood, expected. He then turned to de Nouailles, whose brain was now beginning to function again. ‘There is no sign that Hild died because of a man’s lust, but if you are wise you will not have your women wander about alone outside the bounds of the manor bailey. I wish to see every man who was out in the fields today. With permission, Father,’ he turned to the priest, ‘I would speak to them one by one in the church. It is a good place for truth.’

  He sounded confident, assertive, and as if, thought Catchpoll wryly, he had been doing the job for years. It was a good performance.