Faithful Unto Death

by Sarah Hawkswood

  ‘You are making doubts where we need none, my lord,’ Catchpoll said, soothingly. ‘Young Walkelin has the right of it with the horse, I am sure.’

  Walkelin blushed.

  ‘If I finds the horse, do I confront Corbin with it, or leave it, or bring it back to the manor?’ Walkelin wanted to do the right thing.

  ‘Well, if you brought it back alone, they would say as it was just a lost horse, now, wouldn’t they?’

  ‘Er, yes, Serjeant.’

  ‘And we wants to confront the manor to make ’em worry that we know the killing was done here, yes?’

  ‘Yes, Serjeant.’

  ‘Hmm, mayhap your brain does not work without breaking your fast, because that leaves us with …?’

  ‘I will bring Corbin in with the horse, Serjeant.’ Walkelin sounded apologetic. ‘Mind you, breaking our fast would be good, if I am to trail after Corbin all day.’

  Corbin emerged from the solar bearing a bucket with a cloth over it. Upon being addressed by the lord Undersheriff, he stopped in his tracks, looking distinctly uncomfortable, not least because standing before someone that important whilst holding a bucket that was heading directly to the midden felt disrespectful, and he feared being cuffed about the ears for it. He put the bucket down, carefully. He looked wary.

  ‘You’re not in trouble, lad,’ Catchpoll reassured him, and then added the caveat, ‘at least not as long as you answers the lord Undersheriff good and true.’

  Corbin looked even more worried.

  ‘What upset the lord Durand in the night, Corbin?’

  ‘Upset, my lord?’ Corbin blinked at him. ‘He never sicked up anything last night, which pleased the lady Matilda.’

  ‘Not upset his stomach, upset his head. You and he had heated words in the dark hours.’

  Corbin looked blank, but not confused blank. It was the look of one who was trying to keep his face immobile.

  ‘No, my lord.’ He then tried too hard. ‘The lord Durand slept through the night without stir.’

  ‘Then you spoke with the lord Thorold? About what at that hour that could not wait until daylight?’

  ‘I did not speak with him, my lord.’

  ‘You spoke with someone, and it was not a woman.’ Bradecote did not raise his voice, but it was firm.

  ‘I … You must be mistaken, my lord. I … I says things in my sleep, so my father says. Mayhap that was it, aye, and so I would not know what it was nor why.’ Corbin looked cheered, as though he had just found the ideal answer, but that lasted barely a moment. Catchpoll growled at him.

  ‘Don’t you tell lies to the lord Undersheriff, or he will lose his temper, and so shall I.’

  ‘I … I did not speak with the lord Thorold. He sleeps above with’ − Corbin blushed even mentioning her name in association with a bed − ‘the lady Avelina. They had retired to the upper chamber when I entered the solar.’

  ‘Which takes us back to my first question. What did the lord Durand become agitated about?’

  ‘Nothing, my lord.’ Corbin looked like a cornered animal now. ‘He … it was nothing.’

  ‘Then tell us, and let us decide if it was nothing.’ Bradecote persisted, but did not show any sign of losing his temper.

  ‘Well, my lord, being ill, as he has, makes some things confused in his head. He … he opened his eyes, the once in the night, and mumbled, which awoke me on my stool. He looked at me and accused me of trying to kill him with poisons. I told him I had done no such, but he was not convinced. I may well have said, “I swear” when trying to persuade him.’

  ‘And he believed you? That was enough for him? Your word?’

  ‘I think he half-believed, but was so tired he slipped back into sleep, my lord.’

  ‘So why did you first tell me he did not waken?’ Bradecote frowned at the lad.

  ‘Because … because with all you investigating a death as murder, I wanted no idea that I was poisoning the lord Durand.’

  ‘You are a very poor liar, Corbin son of Brictmer.’ Catchpoll looked grim.

  Corbin looked at the floor, but said nothing more.

  ‘You see, if you lie, we wonder why you lie. What is it that you are covering up, Corbin?’ Bradecote kept up the pressure.

  The youth did not raise his head, but shook it.

  ‘So we have to ask the lord Durand himself?’

  Corbin looked up then, and he was uncertain.

  ‘He will not recall, might say something different, my lord.’

  ‘That at least we can believe. Not easy is it, when you have not had the chance to decide what to say,’ Catchpoll let his lip curl in derision, and Corbin looked beseechingly at the lord Undersheriff.

  ‘It is not that, my lord, I swear.’

  ‘You are doing a lot of “swearing”. I seek only the truth, and if it is nothing to do with Hywel ap Rhodri’s death, it is of no interest.’

  Corbin just stared. He looked to Bradecote to be in a situation he could not win, fearing betrayal of Durand FitzRoger, and the shrieval power.

  ‘I am sorry, my lord, I can tell you nothing you need to know.’

  Catchpoll looked at Bradecote, who shrugged.

  ‘Then be about your task, and hurry not back. The midden is about where you are, right now.’ Catchpoll dismissed the scared youth.

  ‘Not exactly no help at all, but leaves much to be found out,’ sighed Bradecote. ‘I do not relish prodding Durand FitzRoger for more.’

  At which point Walkelin peered around the door.

  ‘My lord, there is things you ought to know.’

  Walkelin revealed his discoveries. Dismissed to his duties, he had pondered as to how he might find the large man-at-arms alone, but was fortunate to have seen him with a hunk of bread in one fist, about to ascend to the small upper chamber to the left of the gate. Walkelin wondered if he was sent there upon guard duty, and if so, against what did he think he was guarding? Thinking quickly, Walkelin darted into the kitchen, beamed at the cook, and pleaded very politely for two beakers of small beer for his serjeant and the lord Undersheriff, whose title alone guaranteed a positive answer. Armed with two beakers, he followed where the man-at-arms had gone, though he found climbing the ladder stair to the upper storey awkward whilst balancing both filled beakers. He emerged into the chamber like a rabbit from a burrow.

  ‘Good morrow. I thought as you might have a thi—’ He stopped. The man-at-arms was stretched out on the floor, on a rough palliasse, arms folded and clearly settling himself for a nice snooze. ‘Oh!’

  ‘Kind of you to bring the beer, mind,’ grinned the big man. ‘Work you hard in the employ of the lord Sheriff, I have no doubt. See, here it is different. The lord Thorold, he keeps us “just in case”, you might say, but who threatens us? Nobody. It is all show. So why bust your guts on a hot summer’s day when one can take one’s ease, or so I say. The lord Thorold will not come up here, for sure.’ He laughed at Walkelin’s shocked face. ‘Now you see how life could be, eh? Poor you. Best you sits here, and has the other beaker, unless you brought them both for me.’

  Walkelin thrust a beaker towards him, still rather stunned, and took up the offer of a seat upon a heap of sacking.

  ‘Is it really this quiet here?’ he asked, quite genuinely.

  ‘Oh yes. In the old days, before the lord Durand left, there was shooting in the butts, and even quarterstaff work, according to Will, who was born here. Before my time, glad to say. The lord Durand took things a bit seriously, so I am sure everyone was glad when he went off to serve with the lord Gilbert de Clare. Big military household, so I hear, which would suit an active sort of man.’ He took a draught of his beer, and wiped a hand across his mouth. ‘The trouble is − younger sons. What do you do with them? If you are a lord, that is. The lord Thorold would not want him here, in the way, and hoping somehow his brother might just break his neck one day. Oh, you look askance, but there is no love lost there, I promise you, and even less these days.’ The man settled himself as one about to
impart good gossip. ‘The lord Thorold went and wed, didn’t he, and a pretty piece, though not my place to say. Nobody is quite sure why he did so, since he has never shown interest in anything in a kirtle. Sort of bloodless, he is. Anyway, when the lord Durand came to see his lady mother, the real “lord of Doddenham” even now, he found his brother with this lovely wife. Made him jealous it did. He went back and had his eye on some tidy little heiress, but got short shrift, because he is a Lackland, and will not have anything unless he wins it in deeds for his lord. So the lusty lord Durand has been thwarted, and what is more’ − the man-at-arms leered and gave a knowing wink − ‘he would gladly provide the lady FitzRoger with what she’s not getting from his brother. Not as I am saying they have, mind, just that they would if they could, and mayhap they have. Who is to say, eh?’

  ‘What about while he has been sick? They say as she and the lady Matilda tended him.’ Walkelin, interested in this background but keen to know when Durand was in his better condition, made the suggestion eagerly.

  ‘Hmm, well not when he got here, that is for sure. He was in a poor way, and that’s no lie. I helped carry him in from the litter and he was dead weight and raving in fever.’

  ‘But isn’t it one of them fevers that goes up and down?’

  ‘Seems it is. He arrived at death’s door, I would say, and had the lady Avelina, the lady FitzRoger, wringing her hands and a-weeping over him. The lady Matilda, now, she is a tough one, she just said he would not die. Methinks she simply would not permit him to die. It was she who made the things he took for the fever, and the younger lady just dabbing his brow like, according to young Corbin. He got better, then a bit worse, then a lot better after about ten days. He even got up and on his horse, though I would think if it shied he would have been off it in a trice. Went hawking, like I said last night. What I did not say was as I also saw him from up here, walking slow, but walking, and he went to the hazel coppice.’

  ‘He did?’ Walkelin played surprised and confused.

  ‘Aye, and guess who went to the same place not all alone, but a bit later?’

  ‘Not her?’ Walkelin invested the word with all the awe the big man could have wanted.

  ‘Yes, the lady Avelina, and whatever she was going for it was not to see how the cobnuts are progressing. Came back looking “occupied” I would say,’ he guffawed lewdly, ‘but the lord Durand nigh on staggered back. Something, or someone, took a lot out of him in that there coppice, but I am not sure the lady was … satisfied.’

  ‘Was that before the Welshmen came?’

  ‘Couple of days. The lord Durand looked a bit pale and stayed within the hall after that, and was laid upon his bed last day they were here. Not been up since.’ He grinned. ‘Which might have been his problem among the cobnuts.’

  Walkelin tried not to blush. The man handed him the now empty beaker.

  ‘If there is any more, in an hour or so, do not be afraid to wake me, friend.’

  ‘So that is what I have, my lord,’ Walkelin concluded his report, a little flustered of cheek.

  ‘Which implies that Durand and the lady Avelina have been disappointing Father Dunstan, or at least trying to,’ Bradecote said, quietly.

  ‘And if what that idle bastard says is true, Durand has been disappointing the lady since he was ill. If he failed her, how much more likely that she was open to Hywel ap Rhodri’s silver tongue, to put it mildly.’ Catchpoll could do a leer that cast that of the man-at-arms into the shade.

  ‘What is also important is that Durand was not writhing in his bed when Hywel ap Rhodri arrived, so it is logical that the Welshman told him about his brother’s “illegitimacy” so that he could stand back and watch him smoulder like kindling, and maybe even do something.’

  ‘He looked ill, though, after the er, coppice,’ Walkelin reminded his superior.

  ‘Hywel might not have known or thought of that at first,’ replied Bradecote. ‘What is also clear is that if the lady Avelina was thinking Durand a … spent force, shall we say, and fluttered her eyelashes at Hywel ap Rhodri, Durand would be a very unhappy man.’

  ‘So you are saying as either he fell sick, and had Corbin kill the man for “insulting the lady Avelina”, or he faked being as poorly as he claimed, and did it himself that second night.’ Catchpoll sucked his teeth. ‘Though he must have had an accomplice to get rid of the body, and that would be Corbin, most like.’

  ‘Er, the problem of Rhydian arises, though, Serjeant.’

  ‘Pox on the man. Could Durand have bought him off?’

  ‘Not only do I have my doubts over that, but also whether Corbin would have killed to silence him.’ Bradecote rubbed the back of his neck. ‘You said yourself, Catchpoll, he is not one who has killed, just a peaceable lad from a manor.’

  ‘So could the lord Durand have killed Hywel, and it was in the back so no struggle, and then killed Rhydian and persuaded Corbin that he had to in self-defence, having saved the lady Avelina’s honour?’ Walkelin’s offering was put with caution.

  ‘Possible, but not highly likely. However, it would account for Corbin’s swearing his oath in the night.’

  ‘Wait a moment, my lord, this gets more clever, on Durand FitzRoger’s part.’ Catchpoll pulled a face like a man with toothache. ‘How about he does as Walkelin says, but tells Corbin that Rhydian threatened to tell everyone about his master and the lady, besmirch her name. If he has not done for him himself, in that case he could set Corbin off as the noble saviour of his lady’s honour, and what with Rhydian being a scrawny chap, I doubt not Corbin could best him and kill “with right at his shoulder” in his own misguided eyes. He would then arrange for the disappearances of master and man and the manor would keep very quiet about it all, for Corbin’s sake more than the lord Durand’s.’

  ‘I wish you were jesting, Catchpoll, but I can see you are not, and it makes a sort of sense. Holy Virgin, this gets more difficult the deeper we delve. So, I have to confront Durand FitzRoger with adultery with his brother’s wife,’ Bradecote ticked off his fingers, ‘murdering Hywel ap Rhodri, and Rhydian the servant, or Hywel ap Rhodri and instructing another to kill the servant, or even killing neither but instigating the deaths. He will like that, and as for his lady mother … I am not sure I will get out of that solar alive if she gets nasty.’

  ‘Which means, my lord, we have to get you in, while the others are out, lord and two ladies both.’

  ‘I almost forgot Thorold. Mind you, if he suspects his wife with Hywel, I bet he has done the same with his brother, and would be quite happy to see said brother carted off before the Justices for murder. Loving family, this one.’

  ‘Well, nobody has emerged from the solar since Corbin left, and they have not broken fast.’

  ‘Ah, so I go without my own sustenance to get in and confront Durand. If I faint with hunger later …’

  Catchpoll chortled, and Bradecote feigned looking hurt, which made Walkelin clutch his sides. It was upon this scene that Thorold FitzRoger came as he left his chambers. He stared at them.

  ‘Is murder not serious to you?’ he asked, coldly.

  ‘Very. But a long face does not solve a crime any the faster,’ replied Bradecote, much to Catchpoll’s delight.

  ‘The faster you solve it, the sooner you leave.’

  ‘We leave when ready, trusting to your hospitality until then, FitzRoger.’

  Thorold FitzRoger looked sullen and went to the hall door, where he yelled for a servant and food. Catchpoll grinned at Bradecote, but by the time the lord of Doddenham stomped back to seat himself in his lordly seat, the wily old serjeant’s face was a mask of respectable impassivity.

  Chapter Eleven

  In fact, Hugh Bradecote was able to break his fast, because not only did the two ladies emerge from the solar, but also Durand FitzRoger, leaning upon his mother’s good strong arm whilst the lady Avelina fluttered at his other side like a moth about a flame. Her husband sneered. Bradecote was initially taken aback. The younger FitzRo
ger was whey-faced, and his steps that of an old man, but the latter could be easily faked, especially if his mother was complicit. He stared at Bradecote as if trying to remember where he had met him before, and that was the giveaway. He remembered the interview of the day before, Bradecote was certain of it. The fragility had been an act, an act to see what was known whilst giving little or nothing away. The only thing that jangled in Bradecote’s mind was that Durand had been described by Brictmer the Steward as impetuous, and this was showing more thought. Then it hit him. The only person Durand attended was his mother. No doubt it was she who was pulling the strings, to make sure Durand did nothing ‘foolish’.

  He ate with suitable languor and lack of interest, which had the lady Avelina pressing things upon him with worried looks. Cynically, Bradecote wondered if she had come round to the idea that Durand would recover, in all aspects, and that feeding him up was a good thing. The lady Matilda treated it as her own table, and made discourse with her elder son, which sounded like instruction, and then turned to the undersheriff.

  ‘I wonder that you remain, my lord, when the servant to the Welshman is gone.’

  ‘Had he gone when his master was murdered, my lady, he would be in Wales long since, where our jurisdiction is non-existent. We have as yet no proof that he killed his master, nor that he was not himself killed.’

  ‘That would be rich, one killing the other! What do you think we did, look on and cheer and then eat the horses?’ Thorold snorted, not unlike a horse.

  ‘Do you know, I had never considered that method of removing evidence.’ Bradecote smiled, but it was not the sort of smile that won one in response.

  ‘This is ridiculous.’ The lady Matilda tapped her palm upon the board and nearly overset a jug.

  ‘No, my lady, it is murder, and that is many things, oftentimes, but not ridiculous.’ He looked at Durand. ‘I would have words in private with you, when you have finished eating.’

  ‘When he has finished eating, he will return to his bed,’ declared the lady Matilda, bristling.