‘Three years ago, so said Brictmer the Steward, remember,’ interjected Catchpoll.
‘Why?’ asked Walkelin.
‘What do you mean, “why”?’ Catchpoll frowned at his serjeanting apprentice.
‘I mean if Thorold FitzRoger scarcely beds his wife, why would a beauty interest him?’
‘A fair point, Walkelin,’ agreed Bradecote, ‘but he would want an heir, especially if he and his brother are not close. It might be he thought a comely wife might inspire him, or even that it would conceal his failings, because others, lusting after her, would not be able to imagine that he did not. Things are not always simple. It does not help with the fact that the lady might never have met Durand until he returned ailing upon a litter, and too sick to lust after.’
‘An awful lot of lusting in this murder, my lord,’ remarked Catchpoll.
‘There is.’
‘Would not Durand have returned to see his mother, at least a few times over the years?’ Walkelin, a good and dutiful son, could not imagine cutting all connection with his mother.
‘My lord, you forget the priest. He said that he could not discount a bodily sinning between the two, but hoped it was just flattery and suggestion. He can only know that from previous encounters and rumour,’ Catchpoll reminded them.
‘There is that. I forgot. Let us accept, then, that they have met before, when he was in health and of full manliness. He comes home very ill, and she nurses him, but fears he will die. Hywel turns up, all Welsh charm …’ Catchpoll guffawed derisively at this, ‘and giving off signals like a stag in the rutting season. If she is starved of a man, and Durand, however much she loves him for his body, may be of no further use to her, might she show willing?’
‘She would have to be a pretty heartless piece.’ Walkelin was rather shocked at the thought of a woman effectively using men for her needs, at a base level.
‘I doubt having a heart would aid her in her life at present, Walkelin. She is probably selfish, grown so if not born so, realising she is trapped, and not even having a child to give heart-love.’ Bradecote tried to feel some sympathy for her situation.
‘Which means Durand might have had a motive to kill Hywel ap Rhodri.’
‘And what of the husband, my lord? Even a dog who does not want to eat his bone will snap at the hound that tries to steal it from him,’ Walkelin added.
‘The more so if he caught them at it.’ Catchpoll nodded.
‘If he had caught them thus, he would have killed the man at that moment, so they could not have been together the first night.’
‘But Hywel was gone by the third morning, my lord, so if he found them the second night …’ Walkelin did not give up.
‘But Catchpoll and I saw the lady’s reaction when Thorold told her Hywel was dead. She did not know. If he had killed him, stabbed him in the back, surely it would be when Thorold found them in adultery, and even if he found but did not kill then, she would guess that, dragged off, Hywel’s treatment would be severe.’
‘And Thorold liked telling her he was dead. If he had killed him, I think he would have taunted her with it before now, my lord.’
‘That he did, Catchpoll. However, think on it another way. Thorold FitzRoger is not a man of strong body or fighting mind. He likes to watch. He likes his hawking, but have you seen a single hound about this manor? I doubt he hunts. Such a man might think it more appealing to wait, not even let the wife know he knows she is cuckolding him at this point, and has Corbin drag him off in the night, kill the man in front of him and hide the corpse, upon the reason that he had found the Welshman abusing the lady. That ensures the manor remains silent to protect Corbin. He can bring out the deed to taunt his wife at will.’
‘Nasty, that, but … possible. So, both brothers might have good reason to see Hywel dead.’ Catchpoll sucked his teeth.
‘That is not all, though.’ Bradecote raised a hand. ‘We have to include the lady Matilda.’
‘We do?’ Walkelin blinked in surprise.
‘She has reason. We knew she married Roger FitzGilbert after her sister went into Wales as the wife of Rhodri ap Arwel, and I had guessed he had made eyes at her too. But there is the possibility there were more than stolen kisses. Thorold was an early babe, and weak. The lady Avelina accused her of having borne Rhodri’s brat, and that Durand was the rightful lord of Doddenham.’
Catchpoll whistled through his gapping teeth, which Bradecote interpreted correctly.
‘Yes, dangerous talk. The lady Matilda swears she was wed three months after her sister, and that Thorold was born a month too soon. If that is true, then he has to be Roger FitzGilbert’s. If she heard the words from Hywel ap Rhodri herself, who was told that tale by his mother, and with him wanting to make trouble for the aunt his mother hated, then the lady Matilda might have thought it just an attempt to blackmail or upset her. She might not have known Durand knew at the first, and told him it was a lie only later, even after Hywel left.’
‘Do you believe her, my lord?’ Catchpoll was pulling a ‘thinking face’.
‘I think it likely that Thorold is the rightful lord. She sounded regretful that it was so, but firm in her assertion. Whether she succumbed to Rhodri ap Arwel I do not know. Not every coupling ends in a child. When he chose her sister, she may have told her what had occurred, or Rhodri might have boasted of it to his wife to hurt her in an argument, or when the wine took him. We shall never know, but neither sister had direct contact ever again, and Matilda FitzGilbert is a very bitter and angry woman when it comes to Rhodri ap Arwel. If she heard the son was like the father with women, and he tried blackmailing her, she would have him removed without a second thought, both in revenge upon her sister and Rhodri, and because he might threaten Doddenham.’
‘Would she do it herself, my lord? I have not seen the lady.’ Walkelin did not find it easy to imagine her doing so.
‘She has the strength of will, and if she caught him unsuspecting, from behind, she might have done it herself.’ Catchpoll paused. ‘But …’
‘My “but” is that she has something that son Thorold shares, she would want to see the look in Hywel ap Rhodri’s eyes as the blade bit, watch him die. If she did it herself, I would have thought she would do so to his front, not in the back, though she might as easily have decided to order the death, for dishonours in the manor, to show her power here, which is strong.’ Bradecote sighed. ‘So the only one of the lordly class we dismiss is the lady Avelina herself, and we did not suspect her anyway.’
‘But we have better reasons now, my lord, and reasons we can prod and probe.’ Catchpoll was positive. ‘And young Walkelin has news from the hayfield also.’
‘Yes, my lord, I did as—’ Walkelin stopped. Winfraeth was coming into the village, a bucket in either hand, heading to the well. She was alone. Walkelin looked from serjeant to undersheriff, who both nodded. They slipped round the side of the church to sit upon the grass and think upon all they had learnt, whilst Walkelin would try and use his honest, decent face, to persuade the village girl to give up her secrets.
Chapter Nine
‘May I draw the water for you?’ asked Walkelin, with a shy smile. He had the ability to look remarkably unthreatening and trustworthy. Winfraeth was not immune to that charm. She nodded, and let him fall into step beside her as she walked to the well.
‘Hot work, hay making, though I am from Worcester and not used to that labour, I confess.’ He made it sound a failing, but Winfraeth saw a certain glamour in not having a life based upon the fields and crops.
‘I have never been to Worcester,’ she said, softly, as though it were Jerusalem. ‘Is the cathedral as big as they say?’
‘Oh yes,’ Walkelin could not disguise his pride. ‘The roof is so high inside you could put two houses on top of each other, even tall ones with a solar, at the least. And there is glass in the windows, lots of glass.’
‘Oooh,’ sighed Winfraeth, even more impressed, as Walkelin dropped the bucket down the wel
l. He paused a moment.
‘That Welshman, the one who came here. He is dead now.’ Walkelin wanted to see her reaction. She said the right words, but they sounded rehearsed.
‘He never is! Well, I ought to pray for his soul, but he was not a nice man.’
‘My lord Undersheriff and Serjeant Catchpoll, they say that too. He would not keep his hands to himself, they say, and was a menace to decent women.’
‘He was. I—’ She stopped, but Walkelin looked the picture of sympathetic understanding, and he was only a lowly man-at-arms and not the lord Undersheriff or his rather frightening serjeant. Her resolve melted away. Here was a sympathetic ear, and with no connection to the folk among whom she lived. ‘I saw him, the second morning after he came, by the twin oaks, and with the lady Avelina.’ Her voice dropped. ‘I was not looking, but I saw. She was in his arms, and … I would have said by choice, but for …’
‘But for what?’ Walkelin sounded more intrigued than interrogative.
‘He saw me. I know he saw me, and I ran away, and I told nobody, not even my father or Ketel.’
‘Ketel?’
‘He is … I had hoped … And we are very fond … but …’
‘You speak in riddles, Winfraeth, if I may use your name.’
‘I ran away and I told him, when he, the Welshman, found me, that I had told nobody, but he did not believe me.’ She was not truly attending to him now. ‘I was in the field, and he must have watched for me, for when I went to the thicket to—’ She blushed. ‘I never saw him until he grabbed me from behind, and his hand was over my mouth. He said as how I was a nosey wench and he ought to slice my nose right off as a warning.’ She was silent for a moment. ‘I almost wish he had, instead.’ She bent her head, and a shudder ran through her.
‘Sweet Jesu, your father and your man must have wanted to kill him. How did you stop them?’
‘They would have … so I did not tell them, said I had caught my gown in a bramble and fallen, to account for tears to the cloth and the bruise on my face and … When I heard he was dead I could not let Ketel wed me with the lie in my heart. I told him, though not about the lady, and he said as he believed me, and … There will be no child from it, thank the Holy Virgin for hearing my prayers,’ she crossed herself. ‘He told my father it was his choice, and he would stand by me … But now I wonder if it is right to make him do so. What must he think? I could do nothing, nothing, but—’
Walkelin laid a tentative hand upon her arm, and when he spoke, it was not as a sheriff’s man.
‘If he said it was his choice, it was so, and he knows that you are maid at heart. If you blight his life, and yours, by keeping from him, then the Welshman has another victory over you, even though his body rots. Winfraeth, what you have told me is important, and I am duty-bound to tell the undersheriff, but I swear to you, no other person in Doddenham will know what you have said to me, nor shall we speak of it with Ketel or your father. It is further proof of the man, and his misdeeds, not of guilt that you or yours should feel.’ Walkelin was perhaps no more than eight or nine years her senior, but he felt as old as Serjeant Catchpoll, and as serious. ‘Now, I will carry these buckets to where you leave the track, and no further, so none sees that you spoke with me.’
She looked at him through her tears, and his honesty was so patent that she sniffed, wiped her nose upon her sleeve, and nodded.
‘Thank you.’
When his superiors saw the look upon Walkelin’s face they knew, knew as clearly as if he had told them in words. It was rare to see him look other than an essentially kindly soul, and at this moment he looked like a man who had killing on his mind.
‘So he did. We had to think it likely.’ Catchpoll hawked, and spat into the grass.
‘If he were not dead already, I would see him swing, Serjeant, but only after I had had my time with him, and he would want the rope by then.’ Unthinkingly, Walkelin echoed Bradecote’s words to Rhys ap Iorwerth. He proceeded to tell them Winfraeth’s tale. ‘I swore we would not make it known in Doddenham, not see her shamed.’
‘Why should she suffer more? You did right, Walkelin. We can only be thankful that he let her live, and that her man is sensible and understanding. But it gives us more to think upon.’ Bradecote was grim.
‘Not least where the bastard got the stamina,’ grumbled Catchpoll. ‘He seems to have needed women like most men need bread.’
‘He cannot have gone about like this in Mathrafal, my lord, else there would not be a woman untouched.’ Walkelin was still seething.
‘I think he saw this time in England as his chance to do what he wanted as often as he wanted, without fear of consequences, since he had no intention of returning. I, like you both, think the knife was too swift a death, but that is what he got.’
‘Pity it is that a knife in the back cannot be self-defence, for even if it went before the Justices for the killing, if the man − or woman − did for him to keep his own life, the penalty would be light. That is if any at all, especially if we gave it that Hywel ap Rhodri had raped and murdered his way through our shires.’ Catchpoll shook his head.
‘Which helps us not at all now,’ remarked Bradecote, stretching. ‘Winfraeth saw him with the lady Avelina, but told nobody. What we need to know is whether any other saw their indiscretion, and whether husband or ailing lover, in thought or deed, saw them. Might Durand have followed her, seen her with Hywel, and feigned illness to cover his plans for later that day?’
‘The ladies nursing him would have known, at the least,’ Catchpoll reminded him.
‘But the lady Matilda only said he fell ill the second day, not when upon that day, and … could he have left the solar in the night, murdered Hywel ap Rhodri and his servant and … He could not have got the bodies away, though, not without people knowing.’
‘But they did know, within the manor walls and in the village. Winfraeth said she told her swain Ketel when it was known the Welshman was dead, and we did not say to them he was dead. Besides, everyone in the manor would be happy if he were dead and gone after the things he did. If Durand killed “the Welsh bastard” and his servant, he need not even have admitted it, my lord. Come the morning, the bodies are discovered. The lord Thorold decides it is best hidden and forgotten, since whoever had cause had a just one, and arranges for the disposal of the bodies. In which case Rhydian might lie as far as the shire boundary.’ Walkelin warmed to the theory.
‘So why keep one horse, and where is the pony, Walkelin?’ asked Bradecote.
‘Rhydian’s body was taken under a cloth on a cart, with produce or wood, or some other disguising reason. The pony was used to take Hywel ap Rhodri’s body over the border into Oswaldslow Hundred, or on as far as the woods by Cotheridge, and then taken perhaps and sold in Worcester before any of us knew of the death. One grey pony sold by a man is not worthy of questioning, in the way of everyday. The horse is more distinctive, and worth more also, and so if nobody is like to come sniffing about in Doddenham, the horse is best kept until the lord Durand takes it with him to Gilbert de Clare, as his spare horse or to sell to another knight.’
‘Now that, young Walkelin, is at least a sound reasoning. Beasts change hands often enough in Worcester that the animal, if ever there, might be long gone, and other than it was grey, we have no description of it. We cannot trace it.’ Catchpoll shrugged.
‘And if we ask who left the village for several days, let alone with a pony that did not return, we will get blank looks again, pox on it.’ Bradecote frowned. ‘Did you get anything new from Corbin, son of the steward?’
‘He is clearly smitten by the lady Avelina, and spoke as if it were common knowledge that the lord Thorold is lacking as a husband, as I said. He also said Hywel was a bastard who “liked them young” so he knows, at least after the event, of what happened to Aldith and also, as I guess, Milburga. Winfraeth we can discount on this, since she kept her tongue in her head until after the death, and only spoke to man and father.’ Catchpoll pulle
d one earlobe. ‘He was very aggrieved, so if he did not see, then he saw the results in Aldith’s anger or the girl’s muteness. If someone had told him the Welshman had laid hand on his adored lady Avelina, he would have been capable on that score too, but in the run of things he is an ordinary lad, and not the killing type without cause.’
‘But perhaps he had cause, or was given it. One man we have not spoken to by name is Tovi, father to the silent Milburga. He would have cause enough by any reasoning. I should have asked for him in the field, since he might well be with his fellows in their time of need for every strong arm.’ Bradecote chastised himself for forgetting another man by name.
‘I think not, my lord, for I heard the sound of hammer upon iron when we went to the field to ask our questions. I would say his workshop lies on the west side of the village and set a little apart in case of fire.’
‘Keeping your ears open, good lad,’ nodded Catchpoll, approvingly, and Walkelin relaxed a little, and smiled.
The wheelwright’s was in fact perfectly obvious from the fact that there was a new wheel lying on the bare earth beside it, and from the sound of sawing within. They entered, and saw the wheelwright and a lad who was almost certainly his son, from colour and build. Tovi the Wheelwright was a big man, with a mane of hair that was plastered, at the front, to his sweat-beaded forehead. Bradecote expected a booming voice to match, but he spoke with diffidence, in a slow, deep voice. He was also very wary, and as soon as Bradecote identified himself, sent the boy to draw fresh buckets of water from the well.
‘We have to ask about what happened to your daughter, because it concerns Hywel ap Rhodri, who is dead by violence.’
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