Vale of Tears

by Sarah Hawkswood

  They were wrong.

  Brian de Nouailles sat at his table, staring with beetled brows at his man Aelfric as his fingers drummed an angry tattoo upon the elm planks. Leofwine guarded the hall doorway, that none might enter, and know of his presence. The steward had foreseen that his nephew’s return, with the sheriff’s men sniffing about and looking for Walter Horsweard’s killer, was neither opportune nor likely to please their lord, and had had the foresight to send the younger man to a dilapidated dwelling in the woods until called for by the lord de Nouailles. Well, he had been called for now, and was not liking it.

  ‘But, my lord, it is a good horse.’ Aelfric was not self-assured when confronting his lord, however much he swaggered about the manor. There was a trace of a whine in his voice.

  ‘I am not asking about its stamina and looks, you dolt. I asked why you brought it back here. And what, in the name of God, did you think you were doing returning here before I sent for you?’

  ‘But there is no link between—’

  ‘“But”, “but”, it is all “buts” with you. There was no link until we had de Beauchamp’s men turn up in my manor asking all manner of offensive questions. And just how did you come to the decision that it was the time to come back to Harvington? I sent you away, and I told you to await my command before coming back, a command which you have ignored. Tell me, Aelfric, do you think yourself cleverer than me? Do you know more than I do?’

  ‘No, my lord. Of course not, my lord. I just thought—’

  ‘No, you never thought, you just guessed, and you guessed poorly. At least you had the sense not to bring it into the stables, not that it counts as thought, and the sheriff’s hounds have not seen you with it.’

  ‘But—’ Aelfric cringed, correctly anticipating the lupine snarl.

  ‘You said “but” again. And now you are going to tell me that you, and the horse, have been seen?’

  ‘Y … es, my lord, but only briefly, before my uncle hit him − the red-haired man − in the head and he lost his wits.’

  ‘Oh, that is all right, then, as long as your uncle hit him witless.’

  Aelfric looked relieved, but then Aelfric did not comprehend sarcasm. He did understand a jug hurled at his head, and a flood of invective. That the words were foreign to him did not mean he could not understand what they meant, that his life was going to become a trial for the foreseeable future. He shuddered.

  That, at least, pleased Brian de Nouailles.

  ‘I doubt he was as witless as you, even laid out unconscious. Get out of my sight. Keep the horse, and your own miserable carcass, back at the hovel where Ketel the Woodsman lived, and lie quiet. I shall call for you again when I have thought what next to do. Go!’

  Aelfric withdrew in haste, and with a vague sense of ill-usage.

  Chapter Thirteen

  Whilst Catchpoll did not think it likely that they would find anything of note at the place where Hild had been found, it seemed a good way of showing that the sheriff’s men were working to find her killer, whilst they were in fact awaiting the vital information Walkelin might bring them from Evesham. He was sent off early next morning, once their fast had been broken, although not before he showed them the place where he had found the body, which lay at the far end of one of the big fields, on a cart track that was bordered to the north by scrubby trees and to the south by the tilled earth, just sprouting green. Walkelin was mounted, but his superiors walked. The peasants, working the field furthest away, did not as much as raise their heads from their hoeing of the earliest weeds. When the trio got to within about thirty paces of the spot, Catchpoll made Walkelin dismount and loop the reins over a branch, and lead them on foot.

  ‘There’s just a chance we might find signs of a single horse, nice and fresh like, and that would be useful. Even without proof that the bay you saw was Horsweard’s, we can confront Leofwine the Steward over his failure to mention that he was accompanied by a horseman when he came across you and the body. Corner him a little and he might just give us information we need about his nephew.’

  ‘We are assuming it was Aelfric on the horse.’ The undersheriff did not want them to get as set as they had been in Evesham upon a trail which led nowhere, however tempting.

  ‘Who else would be with the steward and him not make mention of the fact? Especially if he was returning on Horsweard’s own animal. If it had been found and brought in after the murder, less a rider, there would have been an outcry at the time, and nobody mentioned a horse of any kind. And there is that cap.’ Catchpoll blew on his chilled hands, for there was a bitterness in the breeze even though the sun’s warmth was just strong enough to make itself felt when it peeped from behind cloud.

  ‘True enough, but we cannot simply assume. So, off with you, Walkelin, and bring us back a good description of the bay that Walter Horsweard rode, and please tell us it had a big nose.’

  ‘And try for us first at the priest’s house, and then the manor,’ called Catchpoll, belatedly, at Walkelin’s retreating figure.

  The serjeant’s apprentice raised a hand in acknowledgement.

  ‘A realistic chance of evidence?’ Bradecote was now squatting on his haunches where Walkelin had indicated the body had lain.

  ‘We need no evidence she was here. We are looking for whether she died here or was dragged here, my lord.’

  ‘Or was carried here across a horse. Though why bring a body to where it would be found soon enough by any out in the fields? If she was murdered elsewhere, why not leave her hidden, or hide her in the bushes and trees where she might not be found for several days?’

  ‘A fair point, that. If you want a body found, guaranteed, it has to be for a good reason. I would say we have several.’

  ‘You mean that she should be found before Aelfric appears back at the manor, so that he is not a suspect?’

  ‘Indeed, my lord. And the other reason is that if our murderer wants everyone to keep their mouths shut, showing what happens to them that doesn’t is no bad thing.’

  ‘And the reasons can both be valid.’ Bradecote stared at the ground.

  No cart had passed that way recently. It was the sort of track used most when the fields were productive, and the wheel ruts showed the weathering of winter. There had been sufficient showers to keep the earth soft enough to keep the imprint of a horseshoe, and there were none up close, but then the rider would have dismounted to assist in the taking of Walkelin.

  ‘We had dew, of course. But no rain last night. As I see it, my lord, the darkening here is the mark where the girl was laid upon her back and the wound bled a little, but that does not help us move forward, for we know how she died. Walkelin did not say which direction the steward approached from, but it is unlikely it was across the newly sprung crop, and if he was awaiting someone discovering her, then in cover is the only obvious place. Then, if nobody came this way before the day chilled and folk headed homeward, he had but to find her himself. The villagers could not have been working in this field, or what happened would have been obvious to all.’ Catchpoll was almost talking to himself. ‘The thing is, if they are working the same as yesterday, well the chances of seeing a bundle on the ground over here are quite small, not unless you were looking for it. So it actually looks pretty certain that Leofwine, if he did not do the deed himself, which is a possibility we can at least use to frighten him, was brought here to discover it. Chance came into play and he saw Walkelin about to do that for him, so he pounced on the opportunity to hand over a nice culprit whom none would mind seeing swing for the crime.’

  ‘The thing is, Catchpoll, if she was killed here, why was she here at all? She spoke to Walkelin, up by the manor gateway but an hour before.’

  ‘She could have come to meet someone, already arranged.’ Catchpoll lifted a hand before Bradecote could interrupt. ‘I know, that seems fanciful, my lord. But what is not is that Walkelin came this way from speaking to Father Paulinus. Might she have not gone to do likewise? Mayhap she had recalled someth
ing and felt she ought to speak to the priest about it.’

  ‘But this is not the direct route from the manor to the wheat field. She would have gone straight, along the other field boundary.’

  ‘Ah, but if her killer intercepted her, having seen her talking to Walkelin, or if he came upon her on the way and she told him about the sheriff’s men hunting about …’

  ‘That bucket holds no water. She disliked the man, if it was Aelfric. The priest said so. She would not walk off with him willingly, especially out the way of folk.’

  ‘Hear me out, my lord. If she dislikes him, she is caught by the fatal female urge to stir things up. She thinks she can make him worry, not thinking he really is the culprit, but that it would be good to see him squirm. She even tells him that Walkelin has asked about him by name, and is more caught up in her tale than where they walk.’

  ‘But if it was Aelfric, going to see the priest must have been about him, so she would be afraid of him.’ Bradecote rubbed his hand along his jaw.

  Catchpoll paused. What the undersheriff said was true enough. Then he gave a twisted smile.

  ‘Then what she wanted to speak to the priest about was not about Aelfric, but about someone else.’

  ‘The lady de Nouailles!’

  ‘There was some little thing that pricked her, something floated up in her mind, but before telling of it, she wanted to speak to the priest. Pity it is she never got to him, unless she was going to make a confession, which would have left us none the wiser.’

  ‘Catchpoll, that does just about work, you crafty old …’

  ‘Serjeant, my lord?’

  ‘Yes. But is it too crafty? That is all I fear.’

  ‘It matters not, as long as we sees how the pieces fit. As proof it is spit in the wind.’ Catchpoll matched action to words, and then continued. ‘We were chasing after shadows in Evesham, I’ll grant you, but there is no doubt in my mind that Walter Horsweard was killed because of this manor. Otherwise not only horse but scrip would have been taken. The killer was not a thief, and thought about the horse simply because it was not a thing he could leave to be found. To be honest, a man used to getting rid of bodies would have killed him somewhere inconspicuous and hidden the body away from the path of travellers and let nature deal with it. A thief would not have known where he came from or when a cry would be made over his absence. He would rely on being long gone and with no connection. The river is as bad as it is good. Yes, a body might just go so far as to never be named, but as likely it does as this one did, and with everyone keen to prove his English blood … No, a murdering thief would not have cast him in the Avon, but disposed of him quiet upon the road and hidden the corpse.’

  ‘Unless he was a first-time murdering thief, and threw the body in the water out of fear and then remembered the scrip. You said this before, Catchpoll, and called the murderer a chance-taker, when it might have been in a panic. But that is a slim chance, I agree, and everything points to de Nouailles and his manor, and Aelfric his man. We just need to close the net tight.’

  ‘And here is something that might aid us, my lord.’ Catchpoll had continued his survey of the ground by the trees. ‘The hoof marks of a good-sized beast, and defined enough to be yesterday’s, and footprints from two different sizes of feet.’

  ‘So we bring the steward here?’

  ‘Mmm, I have another idea, my lord. We makes a copy of the print.’

  ‘How?’

  ‘Well, if you hand me your nice cloak, my lord, I press the corner over the hoof print and we see it as clear among the mud.’

  Bradecote drew his cloak about him tighter. It was a good cloak for riding, not more than hip length, and a fine chestnut-coloured wool.

  ‘I would rather bring the steward here, Catchpoll, both because he could not say it was just any hoof mark used as a ruse, and because I’ll be damned if I am going to go cold for the next hour or more, just for you to look clever.’

  Catchpoll grinned.

  ‘I only said as it was an idea, my lord.’

  ‘Remind me not to encourage you.’

  ‘I might be forgetful.’ The grin grew even broader. ‘So, we go back to the manor and speak to Leofwine the Steward.’

  ‘We do. And to Father Paulinus, in case there was anything Hild had hinted to him recently.’

  Walkelin did not dawdle into Evesham. The previous day had shaken him to the core. He had found a girl dead within an hour of speaking with her, faced an ignominious death, and then been returned to the hunters rather than the hunted. His head still ached where he had received the blow, but with the resilience of youth, and feeling better for not being still in Harvington, he rode into the town upright in the saddle, secure in the knowledge that he was the sheriff’s man, and his questions would get answers, especially since Will Horsweard would be glad to be no longer under suspicion.

  What he had forgotten was that those in Evesham had not been told officially that this was the case. The sheriff’s men had simply gone. It was hoped they would not return but since it had only been a couple of days, that was not yet certain. Will Horsweard did not, therefore, instantly react with pleasure to Walkelin’s appearance. In fact, he looked as if every horse in his stables had just been trotted out lame.

  ‘Back again,’ he sniffed, looking coldly at Walkelin. Sheriff’s man he might be, but a very junior one, and there need not be the cautious respect given to the lord Undersheriff.

  ‘Yes, Master Horsweard,’ responded Walkelin with a cheerful smile that ignored the lack of delight on the horse dealer’s face, and was in fact a very good imitation of what Catchpoll would term ‘serjeant’s thick skin’. ‘I am come at the lord Undersheriff’s command to ask you about your brother’s horse, the one he was riding the day he left.’

  ‘His horse?’ Will Horsweard’s suspicion turned to interest. ‘Has it been found? It is a good animal and worth—’

  ‘We cannot be sure it is found until you give me its description. If that tallies with the animal we have seen, then not only will you have it returned, but we will have a good idea of who murdered your brother.’

  ‘So you no longer think it was me?’ The horse dealer wanted the security of confirmation.

  ‘No. We—’ Walkelin was about to say they had discovered that Walter had been cast into the Avon from the Offenham bridge, but at the last minute realised this would lead Horsweard to the obvious conclusion that their brother-in-law must be a likely suspect, and vengeful brothers would be a hindrance to the investigation. He could imagine Serjeant Catchpoll’s ire, and that was not a good thing to contemplate.

  ‘You what?’

  ‘We think he was killed by someone not from Evesham.’ That sounded a bit vague, but it was the best he could do.

  ‘And will you tell me why that is, sheriff’s man?’

  ‘I am not at liberty to say, as yet.’ Walkelin thought this appropriately official, if not officious. ‘But the horse is what I need to know about. Describe it as best you can, Master Horsweard.’

  ‘That is easy enough. You may as well come in.’ As hospitality went, it was grudging, but Will Horsweard did open his door and waved Walkelin inside.

  ‘Walter was on the heavy side and liked a horse well up to his weight. He found the bay last year, and chose not to part with him.’

  At the mention of the colour Walkelin was instantly hopeful. A small seed of doubt had entered his mind that he would be going back with the disappointing news that the horse was grey or pale chestnut and the best lead they had would be dashed like a broken pitcher. He tried not to look too pleased.

  ‘What manner of bay, and how tall?’

  ‘Between sixteen and seventeen hands it is, and a dark bay. Not the most beautiful of beasts, but with good stamina, and wonderful hindquarters.’

  ‘How does he look, in detail − any marks?’

  ‘He has a big, heavy nose, and a white off-hind.’

  ‘And if you saw him you would identify him?’

  �
��Oh yes, at fifty paces.’

  ‘That is very useful, Master Horsweard.’ Walkelin noted that they had not been joined by Walter’s widow. He had little doubt she had left, after what had been said. As if reading his thoughts, Will Horsweard smiled, but grimly.

  ‘My brother’s “grieving widow” would not know the horse beyond saying it was “big and ugly”, and you will not find her here. She is gone to John Pinvin the bridle-maker, and I thought him a man of sense until now. The wagging tongues of Evesham are full of it, though it will be but the gossip of the moment. I am just glad the woman is out of my house, and that, as soon as she can, she will lose the name of Horsweard. She brought bad luck upon us as I see it.’

  Walkelin did not comment that their family’s bad luck almost certainly stemmed from marrying off his sister to Brian de Nouailles.

  ‘I never thought to inherit the business at all until Walter showed he was not likely to sire sons, and even then …’ Will Horsweard sighed, and crossed himself. ‘Life is never certain. Now it is up to me, and for all that I am crippled, there is no reason why I should not have heirs of my body. What I lack in looks I have now in wealth and position, and I have seen the dangers of a fancy wife. A comfortable woman, a woman who will make this place a proper home as in my mother’s day, that is my aim.’

  Walkelin did not think it unreasonable, but he was not there to listen to Horsweard’s plans. He made vague murmurs of agreement, and made his farewell without haste, but had the horse trader seen the speed to which he urged his mount he would have been surprised, and then laughed, for Walkelin’s mount was a natural plodder, and getting it to maintain even a reasonable canter was hard work. It was a pleased, but rather breathless, Walkelin who let his beast slacken to its normal desultory pace as he entered Harvington and dismounted before the priest’s house.

  His superiors were not within, so he stabled his mount and walked to the manor, where he was grudgingly allowed within but given a darkling look by the gatekeeper.