Faithful Unto Death

by Sarah Hawkswood

  The other villagers kept their eyes lowered. They probably agreed with her, but were not so bold, or foolhardy. Then Bradecote glanced at Corbin. His eyes were not lowered. He looked as if he had been hit so hard his wits had flown, as though she was someone he was seeing for the first time. Bradecote suddenly felt a wave of revulsion for his duty. If Corbin had obeyed someone he dare not disobey, and had committed murder, he would hang, yet the person who commanded him might escape that fate, and the simple and everyday wooing of steward’s son and village maid that might make two souls happy would not happen. Catchpoll would say that it was not their ‘fault’, being the law in person, but that it was the ripples of crime that affected far more than just culprit and victim. Actually, thought Bradecote, giving himself a mental shake, Catchpoll would just tell him not to be a fool, but in more polite terms than he would use to Walkelin.

  There was a very uncomfortable silence. What happened next? Should they just drift away and return to the important tasks of their day? Catchpoll stepped forward.

  ‘What the lord Undersheriff says is true. Be about your business, but know we do not leave until the truth is before us.’ It was the dismissal they sought, and there was a relieved sigh, as if the community exhaled as one. The courtyard was empty in a couple of minutes except for the sheriff’s men, and Corbin, holding the brown horse with the white stocking, a horse that fidgeted now, ears twitching, no longer relaxed.

  ‘So, Corbin, son of Brictmer, what have you to say to the lord Undersheriff?’ Catchpoll did not shout, but then he did not need to shout.

  ‘Sorry, my lord.’ His head was bowed, and he sounded like the child caught in misdemeanour by an adult. Catchpoll rolled his eyes.

  ‘I do not need an apology, Corbin, I need honesty.’

  ‘My lord, I—’

  ‘I have told you what happened. You have no cause to put pressure upon one of my servants who has simply obeyed my commands. What can he tell you except that he has done what he has been told, and taken the animal to pasture in the day?’ Thorold FitzRoger stood in the doorway of his hall, and this time he spoke in English, though he looked at Bradecote, and ignored Corbin as much as he did the horse.

  ‘We have your words only, FitzRoger.’ Bradecote did not disguise the fact that he doubted them.

  ‘Then ask him, and see if I care.’ FitzRoger leant against the doorway.

  Bradecote knew it was pointless, but he had to continue.

  ‘Corbin, tell us about this horse.’

  ‘It is the horse of the Welshman, the lordly one, and was left here by intent. My lord told me to care for it, because I am good with horses and take charge of the stable. When you came, my lord, I was told to take him out of the way, and that I have done, not out of disrespect to you, my lord, but because it was what I was told to do.’ There was a peculiar confidence to Corbin’s response, and, as Catchpoll had said, he was not a good liar. Perhaps he had been told the horse was meant to stay and had no more thought than he had offended the undersheriff, and upset his lord by being found with the horse. If Corbin had killed, Bradecote thought it would show, in fear or even a defiance, but there was nothing other than embarrassment. Yet in the case of both Durand and Thorold, for different reasons, Bradecote would have said another was more likely to have done the killing. Had they got it wrong? Was the ‘other’ Brictmer? Surely it was not one of the men-at-arms, who, despite being soldiers, looked about as fit for killing as a choir of novice nuns, and would be unlikely to be as trustworthy as old retainers.

  Thorold FitzRoger went back into his hall.

  ‘I find it in me to be angry with you, Corbin, for a fool if naught else,’ growled Catchpoll, but Bradecote half-raised a hand and stopped him going further.

  ‘Corbin, the last man we brought into Worcester upon a charge of wilful killing was a man more powerful than the lord Thorold. Rank does not mean the law ignores you. Aldith was wrong in that.’ Bradecote knew that for a half-truth. There were certainly many things that never reached the ears of the law, and had they done so would be considered too unimportant to spend time upon. A substratum of justice, and injustice, existed for ‘small’ crimes, or ‘small’ people who discounted the law as Aldith did.

  Corbin continued to look downtrodden.

  ‘I would say “get out of my sight”, but I will be watching you, steward’s son.’ There was nothing avuncular in Catchpoll’s manner now. ‘Take that horse away. Walkelin, you can take that mare back to the pease field, lest she get hungry, and then watch the haymakers.’

  Walkelin nodded and went to the stable.

  ‘I sounded confident, Catchpoll, but are we any closer to unravelling this?’

  ‘Of course we are, my lord, and I liked the way you made sure the folk knew what was going on, as best you could. Thing is, people who commits crimes gives less away when they feels safe and secure that their crime will stay in the dark. Now it is known that the crime will see the light, so to say, the cracks will appear. The guilty will get flustered, and then they will make a mistake. It was never going to be “Here is the horse, so hands up who killed Hywel ap Rhodri? Good, come with us”.’

  ‘Put that way it does not sound so bad, Catchpoll, except how do we watch for these cracks without looking as lazy as FitzRoger’s men-at-arms?’

  ‘By appearing everywhere, when least expected, and least wanted, my lord. That flusters them good and proper. It is one of the best parts of the job.’

  Chapter Thirteen

  Catchpoll might enjoy getting on people’s nerves, but Bradecote found it less amusing. It felt to him more that he was wandering about, looking an idiot who did not know what to do. It was agreed that Catchpoll would cover the manor staff, and that he would be in the way of the ‘family’, which was about as comfortable as sitting on teasels. It also had the issue of access, for demanding that they accept his presence in the solar was intrusive, and sitting in lonely isolation in the hall rather ridiculous.

  It was therefore almost with a sense of relief that he found Thorold FitzRoger sat in his lord’s seat, which was pushed back so that he could rest his booted feet upon the table before him. Bradecote had a secret suspicion he was doing this because he knew his mother would disapprove. He had a goblet of wine in his hand, and an unpleasant expression upon his face, sour and discontented.

  ‘I am trying to think which is the worse, having you here or the Welsh bastard.’

  ‘Well, it must be a difficult decision, since I do not molest women but am going to be here a lot longer, at least until we find the answer to Hywel ap Rhodri’s death and his servant’s disappearance.’ Bradecote did not sound in the least annoyed.

  ‘I can throw you out of my hall any time I please.’

  ‘You can try. I am not sure those men-at-arms of yours are particularly offensive, and … just how many men have you killed, FitzRoger?’

  ‘I have …’ the man began with vehemence, and then paused, ‘too much wit to answer that one.’ He gave a grim smile. ‘If I say none, you will call me feeble, and if I say I have killed, we will be back to the nonsense over the Welshman.’ He sneered at Bradecote. ‘I also do not feel the need to prove my manhood by killing people. A sword is not another version of a man’s “prowess”.’

  ‘From what is said, then, you are unacquainted with action in either sense.’ Bradecote suddenly wanted to annoy.

  ‘You ought not to talk to whores.’ FitzRoger tried to sound merely bored.

  ‘I need not talk to anyone, just listen. It is common knowledge.’ This was met by silence. ‘I have to admit, the puzzle at present is what happened to Rhydian, and even more baffling, that grey pony.’

  ‘I told you, the Welshman rode the grey and his servant walked beside it.’

  ‘No.’ Bradecote shook his head. ‘That is a foolish lie, because when a man leaves, he will later arrive, and Hywel arrived as a stabbed and naked corpse, and the pony and servant have not been seen in Worcester or upon that road. They have not arrived anywhere.’


  ‘Well, since he would not be delivering the message to Robert of Gloucester, why would the servant go to Worcester at all? He would head back to Wales, where they would understand his tongue.’

  ‘An interesting point, I agree. Would that be because the message is, or was, still here? I assume it was in Latin, since Madog ap Maredudd could not expect there to be a Welsh-speaking scribe in Earl Robert’s hall. Though unless you learnt reading, I doubt you have the meaning of it. Asking Father Dunstan would be too great a risk, and he looks the sort of parish priest whose Latin is now pretty well confined to the Offices. Whose side are you on, FitzRoger?’

  At this Thorold FitzRoger laughed, and slapped his hand upon the arm of his seat.

  ‘Ha, you think I would kill to gain credit with one or other? I am too small to be remembered in more than the tax accounts and nothing I might say would change that. I have never dreamt of that sort of power. I care not if King or Empress rules if they leave me to my own life. If you want partisan, then ask my brother. Gilbert de Clare is not consistent, but he sides with the King at the present. Ask Durand about any message.’

  ‘But Durand was ailing then.’ Bradecote kept his knowledge to himself.

  ‘An undulant fever is a very useful illness,’ said FitzRoger, smoothly. ‘I do not deny he arrived here sick, but he has been well enough at times, even to take out one of my hawks for pigeon, and while the Welshman was here, he was not plucking at his sheets and raving.’

  ‘So now it is not that Hywel ap Rhodri left upon a grey pony, at least not upright, and the possibility that your brother killed him. We progress.’

  FitzRoger lost his calm.

  ‘I did not mean—you twist words, set traps with words. Words can lie.’ He looked flustered, and his fingers gripped the chair. ‘You progress not at all.’

  ‘Words are certainly difficult to take back, like opening a cage and letting out a bird. It is nigh on impossible to recapture.’

  ‘I have a bird that leaves and returns.’ Thorold FitzRoger stood up. ‘You cannot confine me to my own home. I am taking my goshawk, and my man, and shall return when I wish, not upon your command.’

  ‘I have no lure to swing for you, FitzRoger? No, probably not. Go then, because I do not fear you will not return, unless you pile your horse with raiment and treasures, and we would notice that.’

  The lord of Doddenham stormed out, and Bradecote contemplated the door to the solar.

  What Corbin wanted was sympathy, and he had no idea where he might find it. He had been put in an impossible position, and thought that he was likely as not going to get a whipping when the sheriff’s men left. It was very unfair. The lord Thorold would blame him, because it was always someone lower down that was blamed. He had hidden the horse because he was told to do it, and keeping it hidden was not easy, for a horse was not like a trinket that could be concealed, buried. The only thing that had surprised him was that his lord had not simply shrugged, decided that telling the lord Undersheriff that his steward’s son must be the murderer was the quickest way to get the man out of his manor, and offered shackles. He put the brown horse in the stable, where it gazed at him in soft reproach, and headed for the drying grounds, where the linens were spread upon the bushes.

  From the small chamber where the fat man-at-arms had spent the morning, Catchpoll watched him walking, hunched, defeated.

  Aldith was spreading a large cloth. The illness of the lord Durand had meant much more laundry work, and she and Milburga had spent the morning rubbing until their knuckles were sore. She looked up as Corbin approached, but did not smile at him. Part of her resented his presence. If he wanted solace, go to the lady, that part thought, although she knew that was outside of imagining. He was such a fool, but underneath she was the greater fool, for she had a tenderness for him that threatened her prickly exterior.

  ‘Why does it have to happen to me?’ bemoaned Corbin.

  ‘Why should it not? Especially if you act like an idiot.’ She sounded exasperated, then mellowed a little. ‘When will you grow up, Corbin, and see that life is not a game?’

  ‘I am grown up, fully grown up.’ His avowal made him sound even younger. She shook her head and laughed. He threw himself down upon some close-cropped grass, and sat, knees raised, hands clasped about them. She paused a moment, and then sat down beside him.

  ‘Because I was born here, I am treated as I was when a boy.’ He sighed. ‘There are men my age who have fought battles.’

  ‘And far too many of them are in the earth. A sword does not make a man.’

  ‘What does, then?’

  ‘Why ask me? I am a woman. Ask your father.’

  ‘He will laugh and say “time”.’

  ‘It is not a bad answer, Corbin.’

  There was silence for a minute or so, though not an uncomfortable one.

  ‘Sometimes I think I will leave Doddenham,’ he said, impulsively.

  ‘But you are the son of the steward. This is your manor.’

  ‘It is the lord Thorold FitzRoger’s manor, and you see how little he values me,’ he grumbled.

  ‘No, Corbin, it is yours, as it is your father’s and was his and his before that. This,’ she rubbed her palm across the grass, ‘is more yours, more mine even, than theirs. They do not truly care for it, just what it shows them to be. It is a badge of rank, like their foreign tongue and their fancy clothes. You are not just Corbin, but Corbin son of Brictmer, son of Ulf, son of Wilfred, son of Agar, son of Eadbald. That means something, something more than looking grand.’

  He stared at her, much as he had stared at her in the courtyard. The lady Avelina was the most beautiful woman he had ever seen, but deep down, beneath the dreaming, he knew she meant as little to him as he to her, which was nothing. Aldith did not have the curves, the bow of a mouth with soft, red lips, but there was a reality to her, and a raw vital courage that now seemed to shine from her. She was brave, and she was clever, not in learning, but in thinking. She thought important things; she saw important things. Her profile was strong, and also, he realised, with a lump in his throat, pretty.

  ‘Will you give me a reason to stay, Aldith?’ he managed, in a broken whisper. His hand moved to cover hers upon the warm green blades. For a moment he wondered if she would hit him, as she had the Welsh bastard.

  ‘You ask such stupid questions,’ she replied, softly, and turned to face him. ‘Very, very stupid questions.’ Her other hand reached up and she ran a finger down the cheek where a man’s stubble was cautiously replacing the fluff of adolescence, and her eyes smiled.

  Catchpoll shook his head, and went down the ladder. There was watching, and there was peeping, and there was learning too. They might be learning, but they would not be teaching him anything he did not know, had not known for decades, and peeping was grubby. He headed for the kitchen and the hope of a beaker of cider.

  Walkelin felt guilty watching the others working, bending aching back and tired arm. He was not, as he had admitted to Winfraeth, a man of the land, but perhaps the earth called long, even through town living, and he felt an urge to offer what help he could. Also, he reasoned, he would be a less resented presence, and he could still keep an eye on who went where and what was discussed.

  He approached Brictmer.

  ‘Master Steward, I have no skill, but two arms and two legs. This work does not look as though it takes much experience, for there are infants here with the milk scarce dried upon their lips, doing their part. Will you accept my labour, to direct as you will this afternoon?’ He spoke with an honest sincerity, and Brictmer, whose face had been solemn, softened.

  ‘See how a soft Worcester lad takes to farming, eh? Well, the arms and legs will be useful, and if you should manage to get it wrong, the joke will lighten the day. I would not have you build a rick, but you may assist upon the one where Father Dunstan is working, to the left.’

  Father Dunstan, with hay in his circle of hair, and rather ruddy of face, was indeed helping in the c
reation of a hayrick, and the advantage was that he was rather better at describing what needed to be achieved, and how. Walkelin commenced cautiously, fearing to look the fool, but soon found himself part of a team and fully involved, sweating with the rest.

  Having stared at the door without getting anything useful from it, Bradecote sighed, and opened it. He felt it was like walking into a cage of wild beasts, liable to snap at him or each other. Durand was no longer in the bed, but sat upon a seat against the far wall, clothed, but with a cloak about him, wrapped tight. The two women were apart, as though they were the corners of some invisible triangle. The lady Avelina had some stitchery in her lap, but she was not plying her needle. The lady Matilda had her hands upon her knees, in a rather more masculine pose, and she was frowning, even before she looked at Bradecote.

  ‘So, you are feeling better than this morning, FitzRoger. The pretence of fragility had gone on rather too long, so I think you are wise to abandon it.’

  Durand scowled at him.

  ‘Your tongue is sharp, but your wits are dull, lord Undersheriff,’ the lady Matilda snapped, ‘or you would not still be here else. You will not find your missing Welshman under our beds, or in hers,’ she glared at her daughter-in-law, ‘though he would be one of the few not to have been there.’

  The lady Avelina threw her sewing onto the floor, but that just made the lady Matilda laugh. Bradecote did not want another round of fighting between the two women, and looked directly at Durand.

  ‘What reward do you think Gilbert de Clare would give to the man who brought him a secret communication to Earl Robert of Gloucester? Would he give treasure, or a bride? Would he even make the name known to the King for preferment?’