‘My lord, Agatha has gone.’
‘Gone? Where?’
‘I do not yet know, my lord, but William, Wulnoth’s lad, said she left early, just after sunrise, for he saw her leave the church and Father Paulinus watched her go.’
‘Did he? Interfering priest.’ For a moment de Nouailles stared into space, then frowned at Leofwine. ‘Why are you still here?’
‘My lord?’
‘You are meant to be finding Agatha. Go on. She cannot have gone far.’
Leofwine had been gone only a few minutes when de Nouailles was disturbed again.
‘What this time?’ he growled, and then scowled, for the footsteps were more than simply those of one man.
Hugh Bradecote flung open the door as though by right, and was followed by his minions, and two Benedictines, one a timorous-looking individual who hung back, and the other a recognised figure, whom de Nouailles would not have invited in under any circumstances.
The arrival of the loathed Abbot of Evesham and the sheriff’s trio was the final straw.
He let out a groan through gritted teeth.
‘Is there no peace to be had from interfering officials and conniving clerics? Go away and …’ He wanted to suggest something offensive but humanly possible, but his brain was not up to the task.
‘The lord Abbot of Evesham is here, de Nouailles,’ declared Bradecote confidently, and loudly, seeing as the man clearly had a sore head and winced at even the first word, ‘to see this vellum of yours, which says the mill you had from his abbey is upon a hundred year lease.’
‘He can’t see it.’
‘But if you do not present it, my lord, why should anyone believe in its existence?’ Abbot Reginald was not a man to raise his voice, but it was firm.
‘Because I say so.’
‘Forgive me, but that is … insufficient proof.’
‘Do not try my patience, monk.’ De Nouailles’ eyes narrowed in anger.
‘And do not try mine, de Nouailles.’ Bradecote was cold, implacable.
‘I do not know where it is.’
‘No? A document so valuable? That is hard to believe.’
‘Believe it.’
‘No. I rather think that instead we will turn out every coffer, every box, in this manor until we find it.’
‘You have no power, no ri—’
‘I am Undersheriff of Worcester, and my power and my right come from the lord King. Catchpoll, go into the solar and bring anything that might contain documents. No need to be tidy about it.’
At this de Nouailles stood, grabbing the table lest he sway.
‘Wait. I don’t want that dog fouling my lady’s possessions. I will fetch it.’
Bradecote felt one single shaft of pity. He had kept his dead wife’s belongings, had he? So he could not bear to let go. De Nouailles, sobering by the minute now, disappeared into his solar and returned with a linen bag, in which was the folded vellum.
‘There, see it if you must, but it bears the Evesham seal, and shows the mill mine still.’ He pushed it across the table, roughly.
‘Does it so?’ By not a flicker of a muscle did the Abbot Reginald show that this was something he had long wished to view. He took the bag with as much care as if it had contained a relic, removed the document and called forward Brother Albanus, who had been lingering unhappily in the background, unused to such heat and unpleasantness. The sight of the parchment eased him, like finding an ally. He sighed, and took it up, tenderly.
He began to read it, his face bearing the trace of a smile, which turned to a frown. He looked up suddenly as if to exclaim, but his abbot nodded at him to continue. The frown of concentration became more questioning. The vellum was taken nearer to one of the narrow windows and the shutter opened to cast a better light upon it. The stained fingers turned it over, the myopic eyes peered so closely it was as if he was smelling the parchment.
‘I am a little confused, Father. This hand is an Evesham hand, I have no doubt of that, and the seal is our seal, and yet it deceives. Why would a brother in our House create this thing?’
‘Brother, that much I can explain to you. We have reason to think it was written by a scribe by the name of Thomas, who had once been a Brother of Evesham.’ Catchpoll offered the answer.
‘Thomas … Yes, I recall a brother lost to us of that name, years back.’ He shook his head. ‘He has done a bad thing here, though with some skill, and should do penance for it.’
‘Too late to do any in this world, Brother, for he is dead these four months.’
The Benedictines crossed themselves. Brother Albanus looked pained.
‘God have mercy upon him.’
‘Indeed, Brother, but tell me what you see.’ Bradecote did not want to rush the man, but time was pressing.
‘This claims to be a lease dated 1108, but patently it is not. The vellum is not new; that would be too obvious. It is reused vellum, which is not unusual, even for leases. You can see where it was scraped clean, and where vestiges of its old existence remain. That too is perfectly in order, but not only are there old and faded lines, there are the ghosts of words, ghosts that show the lie. Here.’ He pointed to a vague mark upon the vellum. The undersheriff squinted and Serjeant Catchpoll screwed up his face. Even had he been lettered, he thought he would not have been able to interpret it. ‘That says “in the twentieth year of Henry the King”, which gives a date of 1119 to 1120, and means the original words were set down about a dozen years later than those seemingly written over them, thus declaring them false.’
Hugh Bradecote could have danced a little jig in jubilation, but contented himself with a slow smile. Abbot Reginald folded his hands in a prayer of thanksgiving, and permitted himself a smile so discreet that it was barely visible.
‘Thank you, Albanus. The words of truth shine forth even through the ink of deceit. Now, my lord de Nouailles, this proves that you have played us false. The mill is ours as of now.’
‘No. It is your seal. You do not contest that. I say the monk lies, lies because you wish it. This is no fair scrutiny.’
‘A seal may be removed and—’
‘This seal belongs to this parchment, my lord,’ interrupted Brother Albanus.
‘See.’ De Nouailles sounded confident once more.
‘It does?’ Bradecote cast the brother a questioning look.
‘Oh yes, but then that is in order. You see, now I look again at what remains beneath, I see something I recognise. This is, or rather was, a document I wrote, when I was barely more than a novice. I can see a little quirk that I have always had with the letter M. This was something that pertained to some dealing with the lord of Harvington, and must have been here for years.’
‘This is but the word of one Benedictine obeying the instructions of his superior.’ De Nouailles was repeating himself but with less conviction.
‘But it can also come with us to Worcester, and the lord Sheriff’s scribe will be able to see the forgery, even if he cannot identify where the forger learnt his letters. Explain it to de Beauchamp.’ Bradecote was in the ascendant once more. ‘It also gives you a reason to see that the forger never revealed his deed. Was that why you hanged him, de Nouailles, to keep him quiet?’
‘He paid the price of theft, from the very person of my wife.’
‘He paid the price, but was it owing, is what we wants to know?’ Catchpoll ranged himself beside the undersheriff.
‘You seek to find reasons, but are casting about and will follow the wildest of scents.’ De Nouailles waved away the suggestion with more bravado than assurance. Then his expression changed to one of weary resignation. ‘All right. I concede. The mill is clearly yours, Abbot, though may it rot and give you nothing but expense in the years to come. But you cannot lay the deception at my door. I do not write, nor read, and employed the thieving clerk to tell me its contents. Why should I doubt them? What was written was obviously set down at my father’s instruction, when I was a mere youth. What son does not beli
eve his father?’
Bradecote and Catchpoll glanced at each other in growing disbelief. That Brian de Nouailles would wriggle out of even the charge of keeping Evesham’s mill by deception had not occurred to them, yet here he was, foisting all blame upon his own father, who could not refute the charge.
‘But—’ Catchpoll wanted to press further.
‘But nothing. I give back the mill. It is more than enough. You make me sick, the lot of you, the law, the Church. And priests are the worst of it, acting so holy.’
With which he got up and stalked from his hall, leaving his accusers staring after him.
Catchpoll swore under his breath, volubly. Bradecote wanted to break something, preferably de Nouailles’ neck.
‘I fear that whilst we have been blessed with success, the proving of the lease has not given you what you needed, my lord. I am sorry for it, for there walks a man who has turned from God.’ Abbot Reginald spoke in as measured a tone as ever, but there was a tinge of regret to it.
‘Not your fault, Father Abbot,’ murmured Bradecote, still staring at the closed door. ‘I had you brought in haste that proved unnecessary and—’
‘My lord.’ Walkelin’s eyes had widened, as two unpalatable thoughts hit him, and he interrupted, ignoring the frown from Serjeant Catchpoll.
‘What?’
‘Why did the lord de Nouailles leave his hall, with us in possession of it, rather than withdraw into his solar and order us out as he slammed the door?’
‘Mayhap he wanted fresh air,’ grumbled Catchpoll.
‘Holy Mary, there is still that one way to prove his guilt. If the tirewoman declares what she knows, with the evidence of the false lease … He has gone to silence the woman Agatha.’ Bradecote cursed himself for not seeing the wider scope.
‘But she is not in the village, so all we have to do is find out—’ Catchpoll began but was interrupted yet again by Walkelin, who was suddenly moving towards the door.
‘But his last words were about priests. He could have said “monks”, but he said “priests”.’
‘Father Paulinus!’ Bradecote leapt like a horse under spur. ‘Apologies … Cannot offer escort back … Keep lease.’
The three sheriff’s men were running, charging through the door and bustling down the steps, leaving the Evesham Benedictines standing alone in the silent hall.
‘Father Abbot, do you think he meant we should keep the document or that he should?’
‘It is not entirely clear, but if we do, then he will know where to find it, and I think we are likely to be in the way if we remain.’
‘We do not have to return to Evesham in such haste as we came, do we?’ There was pleading in Brother Albanus’s voice.
‘No, Brother Albanus, we may take it gently.’
‘Thanks be to God!’
Chapter Eighteen
Agatha was sat in the single chamber that was her brother-in-law’s home, kneading dough upon a flat-stone. If she was adding to the mouths he must feed, it seemed right she should take on tasks her sister used to do, and free her niece, barely old enough to keep house, to work in the field. When there came a knock on the door she jumped, and said nothing, her hands stilled. The knock was repeated, and then the door opened. Leofwine the Steward bent his head to step over the low threshold.
‘So here you are. I’ve been looking for you, Agatha.’ His voice was very quiet.
‘Here I am, Master Steward, and my sister’s husband knows why.’ She tried to look confident, but failed.
‘Does he? Well, the lord wants you back in Harvington, so perhaps you could also tell me why on our way back.’ He patently did not believe her.
‘I don’t have to go. I am a free woman, Leofwine son of Osbert, as well you know.’
‘True, but disobeying the lord goes hard with folk.’
‘Aye, and obeying also. Only look at your Aelfric,’ she retorted. Leofwine looked grim, and her face suddenly crumpled. ‘It’s sorry I am, so sorry that all this has happened.’
Leofwine recalled his lord’s words; ‘her tongue has cost lives’ he had said. Was it true after all?
‘You could not have changed what happened.’
‘Ah yes, but it all started with me.’
‘What did?’ He looked genuinely perplexed now, and came forward to sit opposite her, and leant forward. It was not a threatening pose. ‘We go back a long time, Aggie.’
‘We do.’
‘He wants you dead.’ Leofwine did not need to say de Nouailles’ name.
‘Yesterday I was afeared by that thought. Today,’ she sighed, ‘as I walked here, I seem to have lost some of that fear. What will be will be, as I found out with my poor girl. I never thought …’ Agatha dabbed at her eyes with her skirt.
‘What is it you know? What is it she knew and told Aelfric?’
‘I thought it was right, when I told him, never thinking what would happen after.’
‘Told who?’
‘Her brother.’
‘Aggie, give me the tale from the start, I beg you. I cannot unravel riddles.’
‘It all goes back to the mill.’
‘The mill?’
‘Yes, the one the old lord had of Evesham. Well, the lord got that nasty pinch-faced clerk, didn’t he.’
‘Aye, to read the lease.’
‘Read it, ha! He wrote it. I saw him, and I told my poor dear lady. How I wish I had not, for it distressed her something terrible, but she dare not say aught to her lord for he was in one of those tempers of his. Then she spoke to the clerk, and he … he made a comment. He must have heard who she was before she wed, and … it was unseemly. She told the lord, when he found her weeping, and then he was so angry I thought he would take his sword and fillet the man, and, whatever the law says, I would understand that. But he didn’t. He waited, then made the claim about the attack and the brooch and hanged the clerk for theft with the goods upon him. That was a lie. I thought about it, and he wanted him dead because of the work he had done. My poor mistress, it broke her heart, and good as killed her. That morning, when she fell, I was in the hall when the lord was shouting at her to forget it all, and she could not, good soul as she was. Weeping and shaking, no wonder she slipped, and then and there the life was out of her, and she was gone.’ Agatha crossed herself.
‘And a bad day for all it was.’
‘But then her brother came, and the first time he was grieving too but was treated harsh.’
‘The lord has forgotten all but harshness. I know, grief can take a man that way.’
‘I sometimes thought it took you, Leofwine, but then there was some glimmer of what you was when … She was a good woman, and right for you. I said as it was best I said no, and I was right.’
‘You were, but you had said yes before that.’
Agatha blushed.
‘That were the blood rising like the grass in spring, and thanks be that none was ever the wiser, for we were foolish.’
The memories of youth before trials intruded for a moment, then passed.
‘So you told the horse trader about what ailed her.’
‘I did, and as how the clerk died not for any theft. He must have flung that in the lord’s face and brought him to a killing rage. I saw the poor man ride out, and I saw Aelfric upon the chestnut take the other road, but he was watching very careful. I have no doubt he doubled back down the track that meets before the bridge and—’
‘Yes. I would have done as much if asked, but was not asked.’
‘Kill a man in cold blood?’
‘Not so cold. You see I saw the pain, recalled it. Bitter it is. If the fool had made the lord dwell on his loss, goaded him with it, then I would have been in hot blood for my lord, but hear me true, never would I have taken your Hild from breath as Aelfric did. There would have been another way, but he was hot-headed, not hot-blooded. The lord made him pay, and though it breaks me to see the last of mine laid in earth as with yours, there was a right to it, law or not. But you
see, the lord did not kill him for the debt owing, but as with the clerk, to ensure silence, as he would with you. It goes beyond. I am de Nouailles’ man, always have been, but it goes beyond, Aggie.’
‘I’ll take no harm from you, Leofwine?’
‘No, none.’
‘So what happens now? If you fail him, disobey? It is you who said it goes hard with folks, and none more so than you who he sees as all his own. Would you say I could not be found?’
‘He would have me out again to hunt for you and under command not to return until the task was done, and with bruises to remind me of my duty, so it would be but a delay.’
‘But if I did not return?’
‘No harm from me, I said, Aggie, and I stick to it.’
‘But I could be “lost” to the world. What if you help me on my way to the nuns at Wroxall? I have no dower to offer them, but a lay sister to do the menial tasks might not be rejected, and if they knew I was escaping being done away with … See me safe the first day to Alcester. I could walk there in three or four days and would be no threat to the lord, so as good as dead. It would be both a lie and true, and none ever the wiser.’
‘Would you wish it?’
‘I don’t think my wishes are very important any more. I will miss Harvington, for it is all I have ever known, and its people are my people, blood kin or not, but if I served the godly Sisters of Wroxall, I would be doing what God would see was good, and my prayers for the departed might be heard the better.’
Leofwine frowned, and said nothing for so long that Agatha resumed her kneading, not wanting the dough surface to dry. It was a very restful, homely action. She glanced up several times, but said nothing, for what was going on in his mind was a very private struggle, and so she kept a respectful silence. Eventually he spoke, in a whisper wrung out of him, and one that trembled.
‘The thing is, Aggie, I am not so sure the Almighty wants all the evil that has gone on in our village to be ignored, aye, and continue. There is right and wrong, and for far too many years I have ignored the wrong and even persuaded myself there was simply a balance of it to maintain. But this morning, when the lord sent me for you, I prayed, prayed as I have not for many years, determined to listen. I heard nothing, but the answer came here, with you. I understand why the lady was so distressed, for all she wanted was to please her lord, care for him, protect him, even. I have wanted that, done that as best I can, but … The sheriff’s men will still be with Father Paulinus. If I can get you safe to them …’ He paused, and shut his eyes for a moment. ‘There’s harsh, and there’s unlawful, and I would look away from that out of loyalty, but these last few months, all the misery has come from wrong. He killed, however it was dressed up, from greed, and it brought about the death of as near an angel as could tread the good earth. He got my nephew to kill, and showed him once done it was easier to do again; and that cost your Hild her life. Then he killed Aelfric for his silence and would have me do the same with you. I will take you to Alcester if you say so, Aggie, but if it is God’s will you want to do, I think we take the shorter road, and go back to Harvington, and God have mercy on Brian de Nouailles.’
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