Faithful Unto Death

by Sarah Hawkswood

  ‘May I have at least her name?’

  There was a silence, then another exchange in Welsh.

  ‘Her name is Angharad, Angharad ferch Caradoc.’ Rhys bent his head, as if in defeat. The lady Susanna spoke again, and he translated with his head still bent, and his voice dead.

  ‘Go back to England, where your king is scarce a king and you have an empress not quite a queen, and find out who killed Hywel ap Rhodri. You may scrabble in the dirt and find nothing, Englishman, but if you do, send here the truth.’ Susanna ferch Gruffydd got up from her chair and turned away from him. He was dismissed.

  Bradecote reported the extraordinary interview to his companions.

  ‘Shame it is we cannot understand their tongue, else we could ferret good and proper over this.’ Catchpoll sucked his teeth. ‘A good, sound motive for a killing is the dishonouring of a woman, and we can include them as enjoyed the process with them as didn’t, if you are looking at vengeful men, be they fathers, brothers, or husbands.’

  ‘It still makes no sense for it to be a killing that springs from here, though.’ Bradecote shook his head. ‘They understand blood feud well enough. It would have happened here, or just into Shropshire.’

  ‘Unless the family wanted the shame kept quiet. What if the maid, as was, looked like to contract a good marriage?’ Catchpoll was thinking.

  ‘And did the servant, Rhydian, have a sister, or a wife?’ suggested Walkelin.

  ‘Or it could be that Hywel ap Rhodri thought his mission to Gloucester provided more opportunities, more nameless maids, and someone did for him because of it?’ Bradecote was almost talking to himself.

  ‘Leastways, we have another motive other than base theft, or court intrigue.’ Catchpoll tried to sound optimistic.

  ‘If the last one, we must also look to England too. We discounted anyone killing the messenger for the message, but if someone fiercely for King Stephen, and with knowledge that Powys and Gloucester both side with the Empress, heard of a boast to impress a wench …’ Hugh Bradecote rubbed his chin, and sighed.

  It could not be said that the trio felt that the evening meal would be convivial. Hugh Bradecote would be most likely accorded the status of honoured guest, despite the prevalent animosity, and he would be at least treated with outward courtesy. Catchpoll was not so sure he and Walkelin would be as fortunate, and warned his apprentice to be wary of any food he did not recognise.

  ‘You never know. Something peculiar might have them all laughing at us, whether we seem to like it or loathe it. We are under the prince’s protection, so poisoning us is not an option, but making a laughing stock of us is well within the boundaries. And remember not to try your youthful lustiness in gawping at maids. That wench you have in the castle kitchens,’ and Catchpoll’s leer was pronounced, ‘is enough Welsh female to make eyes at.’

  Walkelin looked suitably cautious, though it went against the grain in a young man who appreciated his food, and vowed his total devotion to Eluned of the kitchen.

  They thus departed to eat according to their station, and Bradecote felt that if none would ply him with unpleasant ‘delicacies’, he knew that he was watched even more than he was watching, and would need a clear head and politic tongue all evening. His host wanted to know of the situation between King and Empress, and the undersheriff had no problem in sounding confused. Who knew, he thought, how things would unfold, although his own view was that the Empress herself had lost her chance back in ’41, when she had held King Stephen her prisoner, but had alienated the citizens of London and failed to have the crown placed upon her head. She had made enemies, and more was said against a woman’s rule, but she was the mother of a son, and one day, if Eustace, son of the King, proved weak … No, sounding unsure was no deception.

  He ate, though at times he thought the glare of Susanna ferch Gruffydd willed him to choke upon his meat. He wondered if Angharad ferch Caradoc was present, or whether, in her fresh grief, she eschewed food. He could scarcely stare at all the ladies present and try to deduce if one sat with a broken heart. If truth was spontaneous, then she had not expected bad news about her spouse. The cry had sounded natural enough, but … Bradecote was recalled to the present by Rhys asking a question from a man who asked if it was true all English lords had hoards of silver buried beneath their manors. Bradecote blinked in surprise and laughed.

  ‘If that were so, then there would be nobody taking sides with King or Empress either. It would simply be neighbour against neighbour and the winnings to the biggest “wolf”. My only “gold” is that of the grain of the harvest, and my silver pennies will cover the cost of a length of good wool for a new winter gown for my lady.’

  ‘You are married?’ The question came from a woman.

  ‘Married, and with a son, still a babe in arms. Wife and heir are my precious jewels.’

  ‘He speaks like a bard,’ laughed a man down the table, and amidst the laughter, Rhys translated that sally back at least.

  Bradecote watched his subordinates ‘roll in’ to the chamber, Walkelin singing a song his mother would undoubtedly have clipped him smartly about the ears for even knowing. The door shut behind them, and the song continued only as long as the footsteps could be heard in the passageway outside. At which point Catchpoll, digging Walkelin sharply in the ribs, bade him cease forthwith, though less politely.

  The words of censure on Hugh Bradecote’s lips died, and he smiled ruefully.

  ‘So, whilst I was watching everything I said, and scrabbling for even useful hints, you were soaking up more information than ale, I presume?’

  ‘That was our intention, my lord.’ Catchpoll was at least in a more cheerful mood. ‘We had to imboo … drink, a little more than we wanted, just to make it look good. We are not ale-soaked.’

  ‘Not,’ confirmed Walkelin, with the hint of a hiccough.

  ‘Sit down, and let us hear what you have discovered, if anything. Pox on it that it was all in a foreign language.’

  ‘I heard the word “peck-her-diris”, after Hywel ap Rhodri’s name,’ declared Walkelin, with a touch of pride, and little slurring of the words.

  ‘Sounds something the priest would give you penance for,’ grinned Catchpoll.

  ‘Well, he would.’ Walkelin looked almost smug. ‘It means sinful, or wicked.’

  ‘Just why did your kitchen-wench feel the need to teach you that one, Walkelin?’ The grin widened, and Walkelin blushed.

  ‘We know he “sinned”, so does that really help us?’ Bradecote frowned.

  ‘I could not understand the rest of what was said, but there were sounds of agreement, and head nodding. I think his reputation was known widely.’ Walkelin desperately wanted his information to be a grain of use.

  ‘Which means fathers and husbands would keep an eye upon their womenfolk, given the chance.’ Catchpoll was serious once more.

  ‘Sometimes the chance dissolves like mist, and men like Hywel ap Rhodri, who take advantage, ofttimes do it when there is an unexpected hint of opportunity. It gives them added excitement.’ Bradecote’s distaste was obvious. ‘They may even like the woman to be fearful.’

  ‘True enough, my lord.’ Catchpoll rubbed his eyes. ‘I caught no words, but when they weren’t talking about us, and none too admiringly either, our man was present like a ghost at the feasting. I could smell it, sense it. It rankles that he died in England, and mayhap by an English hand, but among the lower sort, I would say few will pray for his soul.’

  ‘And I am not so sure that is not true among the upper levels of this court either. For all that Madog made much of his good points, and may have shut eye and ear to his weakness, he did not spend time at the meal bemoaning his loss of a good man, through Rhys the Interpreter, who still looked as happy as a kicked dog. You know, I think we are unlikely to get more from Mathrafal. Best we get back and report what we have, and set to work at home.’

  ‘God and his saints be praised,’ murmured Catchpoll devoutly, and crossed himself, then belched.<
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  Chapter Four

  They awoke cold, but not hung-over, and Catchpoll needed no encouragement to pack his chattels ready for departure. Walkelin disappeared to the kitchens, where his ability to mangle the word for bread, combined with mime and a cheeky grin, brought them a loaf and a good portion of cheese. Bradecote wanted to show they were keen to depart, and if Madog ap Maredudd thought that meant without food, they would look so much the keener. They went to the great hall, when he thought prince and court might break fast, and indicated they sought admittance. The guard simply stood aside and the undersheriff strode in with his subordinates behind him, more confident than the day before. Bradecote made deep obeisance.

  ‘We would take our leave of you and be about finding the murderer before the trail becomes colder still, lord Prince, but would ask for any knowledge which might aid us as we depart. Do you know whether he took the route through Shrewsbury, or through Bishop’s Castle, and did he carry upon him a letter of introduction that marked him as a royal envoy? What horse did he ride, and what manner of man is his servant, Rhydian, to look upon?’

  Catchpoll gave a slight movement of the hand, which stilled Walkelin, who was wondering why the undersheriff asked a question to which he already knew the answer.

  The questions were translated. Some discussion followed between Madog and three men who looked to be trusted counsellors. Then Rhys ap Iorwerth gave the replies.

  ‘My prince says that Hywel ap Rhodri was to stay at the abbey of the Benedictines in Shrewsbury, and then at the priory in Bromfield, to avoid King Stephen’s castellans, and travelled as a man about private business. He would be circumspect. Lords change sides, so it was better than none know that he bore messages for Earl Robert of Gloucester.’

  Bradecote acknowledged this as wise.

  ‘And his horse? His man?’

  ‘The horse was just a brown horse, but it had a star upon its forehead, and a white stocking to one hind leg. Rhydian rode a grey pony. Rhydian is of small stature, looking more youth than man, and has dark hair.’

  ‘Thank you. That will help us.’

  There was a short, uncomfortable silence where nobody seemed to know what to say, then the Prince of Powys spoke directly to Bradecote, slowly but clearly.

  ‘I send Rhys ap Iorwerth with you.’

  Bradecote opened his mouth, but said nothing, and glanced at the interpreter, who looked as if he had been sent to fend off the slavers of Dublin single-handed. Madog ap Maredudd spoke to his man, so that the rest of his speech was plain to the court, and made so to the Englishmen. Rhys did not care to look Bradecote in the eye.

  ‘My prince sends me with you into England, so that I may report back when you have discovered who killed Hywel ap Rhodri, to save the lord Sheriff of Worcestershire sending word,’ he paused for a moment, then continued, ‘and to see that English justice is fair.’

  There came a snort of derision from Susanna ferch Gruffydd, but Bradecote looked to her husband, and held him eye to eye.

  ‘Noble Prince, the laws of England give even greater weight to the lives of those not of its breeding’ − he did not say that those laws were to protect the overlords, and bring in coin to the Royal Treasury − ‘and a death such as that of Hywel ap Rhodri cannot be emended. It is an offence against our lord King, and as his officer, it is my duty to see that all is done to discover the culprit and bring them to punishment. I do my duty.’ He spoke heavily, slowly. It was important that everyone understood that he had not merely come to spout diplomatic nothings.

  Rhys ap Iorwerth translated, and it sounded to Bradecote that he gave similar weight to the words, however incomprehensible. Madog nodded.

  ‘Then God grant you success, King’s man,’ he paused, ‘for no prince commends failure.’

  Bradecote wondered if the hint of threat was real, or for the benefit of the rest of his audience. He bowed, low and with a degree of flourish. Let Madog decide if that was real or for show, he thought. He could sense Catchpoll bristling behind him and hoped he would follow his lead.

  ‘I would leave within the hour, Rhys ap Iorwerth.’ He wanted to assert that if the interpreter came with him, he was under his command, and if Madog had underlying motives for sending him along, then perhaps a swift departure would limit the amount of instructions that might be given, unless the man had been closeted with his prince long before the audience, which looked most unlikely from his reaction. Bradecote backed away for several paces, bowed again and turned on his heel to stride decisively from the hall.

  Catchpoll was muttering before they reached their ‘cell’.

  ‘English justice!’ he fumed. ‘A Welshman to doubt English justice!’ Catchpoll kicked his tidied bedroll. ‘Not that the bastard is sending a spy to find out all he can for himself.’

  ‘“Lord Bastard Prince” to you, Catchpoll,’ admonished Bradecote, gently. ‘It complicates matters, but we deal with the crime as we always do, discuss it as we always do. Whatever he learns, he cannot report back until all is over, and I would have him see we have nought to hide in this.’

  ‘And what if Prince Madog is connected to the death? Think how easy it would be to ensure nobody is found, or worse, an innocent made to look guilty.’ Catchpoll’s expression was grim.

  ‘You said yourself, Madog ap Maredudd looked surprised at the news of the death.’

  ‘Aye, I did. But that is not to say he might not have done some thinking, and asking of questions, and already know the answers we are sent to seek. We dabbles with politics, here, my lord. Justice, English or Welsh, may come second to the plans of princes. Does the Prince of Powys want the murderer found? Does he want it to seem as if his man was killed because he was Welsh, and provide a flame to fan that would lead Welsh bowmen and spearmen into England to thieve and burn upon the “reason” of mistreatment of a well-born countryman?’

  ‘You are the one who says “we deal with what we have”, Catchpoll. Neither you nor I can influence what goes on above our level.’ Hugh Bradecote gathered his accoutrements and smiled wryly at Serjeant Catchpoll. ‘Just be pleased we are leaving Wales, yes?’

  ‘I am, but wish we were not bringing part of it with us, that is all,’ grumbled Catchpoll, unappeased.

  They left Mathrafal, knowing more than the eyes of the gate guard followed them, and initially in silence. It gave gravity, thought Bradecote, and an awful lot of what had taken place within the walls had been for show. He wondered if that was how life was in the entourage of any prince and gave thanks that he was spared such a life. They trotted along the trackway and Rhys kept his own silence until he realised that they were not taking the road to Shrewsbury.

  ‘But that is where Hywel ap Rhodri stopped. Do you have such confidence that you need not follow his path … my lord?’

  ‘We already know his path, Master Interpreter, and he did not ride to Shrewsbury and thence to Bromfield, but direct to Bromfield in the one day, nearly killing his horse in the process.’

  ‘There is no sense to that.’

  ‘There was if he thought there was an opportunity to take advantage of a woman, where he would be swift gone and swift forgotten.’ Hugh Bradecote spoke sternly. ‘You heard the words of Susanna ferch Gruffydd. Hywel had a failing, when it came to women. You heard what we had found also. At first the murder and rape looked as if they were the crime of a moment, an opportunity taken, but now we know he saved a day of his journey for no other sane purpose, it looks very much as if he felt confident he would find some woman to use in Bromfield. He planned his foul crime.’

  ‘This is just linking two things you “hope” connect, my lord Undersheriff.’

  ‘Do not be so sure. Hywel saw a forge at Bromfield where he might have his horse shod. He went there on the day he stayed, and it was the smith’s wife who went missing. He had been there, almost certainly seen her, and selected her as a likely victim.’

  ‘Victim you say, but he wooed with words, he was a seducer. He had no time.’

  ‘
He was “one who did not understand ‘No’,” remember?’ There was an almost imperceptible pause. ‘A man who gets used to taking what is not fully offered, or offered at all, can learn to like it, prefer it, like to see the panic, the fear, and may come to see seduction as a time-wasting preamble.’ Bradecote spoke with bitter anger, thinking of his Christina’s treatment at the hands of her first husband, who was another such man.

  ‘You paint the picture of a monster, and I never saw a monster in Hywel ap Rhodri.’

  ‘But you are not a woman.’ Walkelin thought the point worth stressing.

  ‘I still cannot believe—’

  ‘Believe,’ growled Catchpoll.

  ‘We will not force on to Bromfield,’ announced Bradecote, after another hour, ‘since we departed well into the morning. Better for us to stay at Bishop’s Castle tonight, Ludlow tomorrow, and then have two longer rides, to Leominster and then back to Worcester. We can stop at Cotheridge and give a name to the priest in passing.’

  ‘Then what do we do, my lord?’ Walkelin questioned.

  ‘Well, we ask west of Cotheridge about the two men, and now one man and the horses. Someone must have seen something, and if Rhydian was the loyal servant as described, there is another corpse yet to be discovered.’

  ‘Perhaps he was buried?’ Walkelin suggested.

  ‘Why bury one and merely hide the other? No, if this Rhydian was “faithful unto death”, he must be above ground, howsoever hidden,’ Catchpoll gave a grim smile, ‘and summer will aid us, because what we will find now will not be easy to recognise, but easy to smell.’

  Rhys ap Iorwerth crossed himself. He was shocked at the way these Englishmen could discuss murder and corpses with so little concern.

  ‘We try all the nearby manors, and this time it will not be a casual questioning, so Broadwas, Knightwick, Doddenham …’ Bradecote wanted to sound as if he had a plan, however thin.