Faithful Unto Death

by Sarah Hawkswood

  ‘Never touched her,’ repeated Rhys, whimpering now.

  ‘Let him be, I tell you. He did not touch the child, I will vouch for him.’

  ‘Then why does she scream?’ Brictmer still held the limp figure of the interpreter, but looked at Bradecote.

  ‘Because, no doubt, she heard him speak, heard the Welsh accent. He did not need to touch her to scare her witless. Leave the man be and see to your niece.’ Bradecote stepped forward, and Brictmer blinked, and obeyed, simply dropping Rhys ap Iorwerth to the ground, where he lay, moaning. Catchpoll picked him up, and he sagged against the wall where Catchpoll thrust him.

  ‘I swear, my lord, I touched her not,’ he gasped.

  ‘What happened, exactly?’

  ‘I came out … out of the church. I saw the girl with a great armful of washing. I could scarce even see her face, she carried so great a pile. I am no servant, but … I offered to carry it for her, and she dropped the lot and screamed as if her life were about to end.’ He sounded mystified, and aggrieved.

  ‘The girl is Milburga, the wheelwright’s daughter,’ growled Catchpoll, quietly. It was explanation enough.

  ‘Oh.’ Rhys said no more, but held his nose to try and stem the bleeding.

  Hugh Bradecote approached the hysterical girl. Brictmer was trying to calm her, and the screams had ceased, but she shook as if with the ague, and her eyes stared wide, like a panicked doe. She came no higher than Bradecote’s lowest rib. A child, that was all she was, he thought, the age of his Christina when she had suffered. He crouched upon his heels, so that he looked up at her, not down upon her.

  ‘This man meant no harm, Milburga. The man who hurt you is dead, you know he is dead. He is no ghost. Look at him. He is a different man.’ Milburga kept her eyes on Bradecote. ‘Look at him, child,’ he repeated, gently but firmly, and she raised her gaze and glanced at the bloodied face of Rhys ap Iorwerth. ‘That is not the man.’

  She shook her head, slowly, her thin chest heaving. It was not words, but it was a response, and Bradecote wondered if he would learn anything else from her, and whether prompting was wrong.

  ‘The man who harmed you. Was he killed when he was … with you?’

  ‘You should not—’ Brictmer began angrily, but was silenced by Bradecote’s look and raised hand. The undersheriff looked back into the face of the girl. Had Christina looked that frightened, overwhelmed? It made his guts churn. He thrust the thought from his mind with difficulty. Perhaps what Milburga saw on his face, an almost broken-hearted pity and sympathy, made her respond. She nodded.

  ‘Listen to me, Milburga. If someone killed the Welshman because of what he was doing, right then, they were defending you, and do not face hanging, or a wergild they cannot pay. Nobody has to stand by whilst a crime is committed, and what happened to you was a crime, not your fault, not your fault one little bit. Do you understand me?’

  She nodded, more strongly.

  ‘Did Corbin save you?’

  There was a pause, and then she shook her head. Brictmer gasped, opened his mouth and then shut it again. Bradecote looked puzzled.

  ‘Then …’

  Milburga raised a shaking hand, but pointed her finger, very definitely, at Rhys ap Iorwerth.

  ‘But he was not—’ Brictmer cried, and the girl flinched.

  ‘You mean,’ Bradecote smiled at the girl, ‘the other Welshman, the servant, saved you?’

  She nodded, kept nodding, and tears began to fall upon her cheeks.

  ‘Rhydian,’ breathed Rhys, in a voice of awe.

  ‘Rhydian was “faithful unto death” according to the lady Susanna ferch Gruffydd.’ Bradecote’s face was solemn. ‘Well, I think he was. He must have looked the other way so often, tried to persuade himself that it was not Hywel ap Rhodri’s fault, but what was happening in England could not be ignored.’

  ‘It makes no sense though, my lord,’ Walkelin interrupted. ‘If Rhydian killed his master in the act of … trying to …’ he paused, blushed, and carried on, ‘and had argued with him over the forcing of attentions on Aldith, why had he remained with him after the murder and rape in Bromfield. If he did not know, he would not think the man a danger particular like, not more so than “at home” in Powys, and if he did, why did he not kill him on the road to Ludlow next morning?’

  ‘What occurred in Bromfield, I think he knew no more of that than his master had been having his fun with another woman, but when he was here he heard Aldith in all her righteous wrath, and warned Hywel, which was why they were heard to argue, and why the lady Avelina thought him like a nursemaid, watching closely.’

  ‘He killed a woman in Bromfield?’ Brictmer crossed himself, thinking what would have happened to his niece. The sheriff’s men ignored him, focussing on the details.

  ‘And the second day Rhydian was given much to do, which meant he could not follow out to—’

  ‘See what he might be about,’ interjected Walkelin, loudly, before Bradecote could say more. He was reminded that he had promised not to reveal Winfraeth’s ordeal to any within the manor. Catchpoll looked sharply at him, but then nodded.

  ‘Aye, making plans no doubt.’ It was a meaningless phrase but Catchpoll knew it would suffice the manor folk present to hear it, and there were those enough about them now.

  ‘And come the evening, by chance he came across you, Milburga, going to your father?’ Bradecote still spoke softly. It was a guess, but it could not have been within the bailey for that would have risked all.

  She nodded, and a sob escaped her.

  ‘Then I think at that time he was being watched. Rhydian watched him, worrying, and then he saw what could not be denied, not made out as willing compliance.’

  ‘But he was loyal,’ whispered Rhys ap Iorwerth.

  ‘He was, but even loyalty could not be complicit with that, and I think that Rhydian understood, at that moment, just what Hywel ap Rhodri was − had been for a long time − and knew both that it had to end, and that if he were caught, there would be great dishonour, to him, and to Mathrafal.’ Bradecote paused for a moment, and then continued. ‘He did the one thing that would save Hywel ap Rhodri from the fate he actually deserved, and he probably saved Milburga from death also. He stabbed him in the back, once, cleanly. Hywel may never even have known who did it.’

  Milburga was listening, as if to a story. She held out her hand, touched Bradecote’s arm as lightly as a feather to attract his attention back to her, and shook her head. Her mouth opened.

  ‘Et in hora mortis nostrae,’ she whispered, like a dying breath. Hild the Cook, who had come out and was hovering close, gasped and covered her face, weeping, to hear the voice at last.

  ‘So, Hywel did know, for Rhydian spoke. “Pray for us sinners, now and in the hour of our death”. Hywel ap Rhodri was assuredly a great sinner, and it was indeed the hour of his death.’

  ‘But my Corbin … He did it, he told me the man was dead, and …’ Brictmer was still confused by the truth that was not quite truth.

  ‘Did Corbin come? Did he see?’ Bradecote looked at Milburga, who reverted to her nod. ‘Then I think he saw Rhydian do what he, as kin, would have done, and saw also not wrong but right in the deed. What happened thereafter, Brictmer?’

  ‘He came to me,’ the man’s shoulders sagged again. ‘He said as how the Welshman was dead because … He said the servant knew, and it was wrong to blame him. I saw the man. He looked almost as dead as his master, white of face, staring of eye. He wept too. I wish he had had the English. As I said before, we pressed him to go, got his pony, his master’s horse. He thrust the reins of the horse back at us and said something, a word.’

  ‘Galanas,’ offered Rhys ap Iowerth, solemnly.

  ‘Aye, very like.’ Brictmer nodded.

  ‘That means he was offering it as the wergild, as best he could, for what had happened. The horse, by right, should be Milburga’s, and if it is sold, hers is the coin for it,’ Bradecote explained.

  ‘There now, we wonde
red so why he did that.’ Brictmer shook his head, sadly. ‘He left, with the trappings and the pony, but he took off his shoes and would not ride the beast, but led it, off into the night. I have no idea where he went, or if he lives still or is dead. That I swear.’

  ‘And we did not ask what happened after he left, did we?’ murmured Bradecote, to himself.

  ‘Corbin took the body away?’ Catchpoll asked.

  ‘He did, and hid it, beyond the Hundred.’

  ‘Actually, so far away he was back in the Hundred, but since the death was of a Welshman by a Welshman, I doubt the Hundred will have to pay for that mistake.’ Bradecote gave a small, wry smile.

  ‘But, my lord, who has killed my son? And why?’

  ‘He is not dead yet, Brictmer. Prayers may still avail.’

  ‘I dare not hope, my lord, dare not.’ The man shook his head.

  The death was solved as not a crime, but overlaid by a crime, a crime without doubt, and that remained. Bradecote was about to get up, for, after all, it was not a commanding position for an undersheriff, but before he did so he addressed Milburga once more.

  ‘What happened is done. Treat it as you would a death, for deaths are remembered always, but do not stop us living. Time will aid you, and you have kin and friends here. The money for the horse is dower for the day, and the day will come when you are woman grown, that a man you can respect will care for you as a husband. You will not forget, but you will live, and you will know happiness.’ His tone asserted, though in his heart it was more of a hope and prayer. He stood up.

  ‘Rhys ap Iorwerth, you will not charge this man, Brictmer the Steward, with assault.’

  ‘No, my lord, I will not.’ Rhys was solemn, still taking in all that what he had heard meant.

  ‘Good. Then the death of Hywel ap Rhodri is declared by me no crime, for he was killed in the acting of a crime most foul.’

  ‘But the hiding of the body, my lord?’ Catchpoll raised the unpleasant fact of law.

  ‘Bodies of dead men are often moved over Hundred boundaries. Someone in this Hundred moved it, thinking it was into the next. Such crimes rarely have culprits found.’ Bradecote looked straight at Catchpoll, but was making his decision known to the manor.

  ‘Very true, my lord, very true.’ Catchpoll nodded. Law and justice were not always the same thing, and if a little justice might prevail in this, all to the good.

  ‘And my son?’ Brictmer moaned.

  ‘That is a crime for which a man will answer. Wrap the girl warmly, for she has been shocked, and give her spiced ale, a little. Have a care to her.’ Bradecote half-turned, and nodded at the cook, who dipped in a curtsey of obedience to the command, and gathered Milburga into her motherly embrace, and led her away to the kitchen. ‘We know much more now, Brictmer, and from that we will find out who attacked your son. If we know why, the who follows. Serjeant. Walkelin.’ He jerked his head towards the church. ‘We will speak.’ It sounded very formal, but that was what the inhabitants of Doddenham needed, some certainty.

  ‘And me, my lord?’ Rhys ap Iorwerth was still a little nervous in the company of the massed English, with a reason to hate the Welsh, and thought of the sheriff’s men as his ‘sanctuary’.

  ‘If you wish.’

  The four men walked away, and Walkelin gave a great sigh as if a burden were lifted.

  ‘So we have completely solved a murder that was not a murder and are faced with what may well become a murder as a consequence.’ Bradecote shook his head. ‘We sit by the priest’s house, and think, think hard.’

  ‘Me too?’ asked Rhys ap Iorwerth.

  ‘Just do not think in Welsh,’ mumbled Catchpoll, but a muscle at the side of his mouth twitched, ‘and stop bleeding.’

  They sat, a few minutes later, propped each elbows upon knees, in the hay-bleached grass beside Father Dunstan’s little dwelling.

  ‘It makes no sense, that is the trouble,’ bemoaned Walkelin.

  ‘If it did, then it would be obvious, lad.’ Catchpoll sniffed. ‘It has to be to do with the killing of Hywel ap Rhodri. It cannot be chance. The lord Bradecote is right, and we are going to end up back in that hall.’

  ‘Then we go back through that first, for we have been led astray at times, and must have the clear path now. Since it is to do with Hywel, then we start with his arrival. He came late in the evening. He made himself known to the lord of Doddenham as kin, and was accepted. Presumably he slept, being too weary to have managed more than a lewd suggestion to a village maid.’ Bradecote raised two fingers, almost like a priest giving benediction. ‘He was here thereafter two days only, and left dead.’

  ‘That first day he must have found time to speak with the lady Avelina, and ply her with his charms, since Durand FitzRoger was up from his sickbed.’ Catchpoll stared at a ladybird climbing a stalk of grass, but was thinking.

  ‘That I do not understand, Serjeant. If she thought the lord Durand was getting better, why listen to Hywel ap Rhodri?’

  ‘I can answer you that, Walkelin bach.’ Rhys looked grim. ‘She did so because when he wanted, Hywel ap Rhodri had a tongue like a bard. If a woman responded to flattery she would be eating out of his hand in the twinkling of an eye, if doing nothing more.’

  ‘Yet you doubted us at the beginning,’ complained Walkelin.

  ‘Oh, he was ever silver-tongued, but … The lady Susanna would not speak false, and her words were clear. I thought him a seducer then. It is not a thing of which a man should be proud, but some are. There is a huge difference between a man who gets what he wants with words, and one who gets it by strength of body, and against the will, let alone who would kill. Were it not that I think the lady Susanna will support what I say, I would dread revealing the truth to my prince, lest he cut out my tongue.’

  ‘So Hywel ap Rhodri seduces the lady Avelina, even under the noses of her husband and possible lover. Daring, or foolhardy.’

  ‘Which gives both a reason to want him dead if they saw,’ Walkelin was frowning, concentrating, ‘but neither killed him.’

  ‘What else does he do that first day? He lays hands on Aldith, a young woman of spirit, who gives him a slapped face in response. I am guessing Rhydian heard both the girl’s complaints in the kitchen, and he would not need English to get her meaning, and Hywel sounding hard done by because she resisted. That leads to Rhydian warning Hywel about how he behaves in the manor.’ Bradecote rubbed his chin. ‘None of which involves young Corbin.’

  ‘Except he would support Aldith, and if he saw anything of Hywel wheedling his way into the lady Avelina’s arms, he would blame the man not the woman. And that is no reason to hit Corbin over the head, either.’ Walkelin looked glum.

  ‘But it makes him more likely to do another’s bidding,’ growled Catchpoll. ‘I said as he could be used, and that, my lord, is where I am sure our connection lies.’

  ‘But he did not kill Hywel ap Rhodri, so even if he was doing another’s bidding, there was no call to silence him, since he did not do the deed.’ Rhys was keeping up in a second language, and struggling, so he sounded a little desperate.

  ‘Holy Virgin, that is it!’ Bradecote sat upright, so suddenly his head spun.

  ‘My lord?’ Rhys blinked.

  ‘His attacker assumed, as everyone in Doddenham assumed, that Corbin had killed Hywel ap Rhodri. He did not kill the man, but even his own father thought that he had, defending Milburga. The person who hit him believed he was the killer, and had obeyed their command, using the attack as valid cover. It is unlikely Corbin would have gone on about the honour of his cousin, and perhaps more likely told of her being “frightened” the way we were told. I doubt the inhabitants of the hall see Milburga very often and would not speak to her, so they would never consider what that really meant.’

  ‘What about Rhydian, and the horse that was left, my lord?’ Walkelin chewed his lip, thoughtfully.

  ‘Rhydian was just a servant, and how much loyalty do they inspire in their own servants? Would any be �
��loyal unto death”? That seems impossible to me. So they assumed Rhydian saw the sense of not remaining, and may have thought he left the horse because leaving with the pony was all he was offered, in addition to his master’s clothes and baggage. So they have feared that under our increasing pressure, Corbin would implicate them, and therefore wanted his silence.’

  ‘And my guess is the lad thought throughout it mattered little in the fact, and if the manor thought he had done it, well he would be something of a hero, even to his lady Avelina, if he believed her offended also by the man. The foolishness of youth might cause his death.’ Catchpoll shook his head. ‘And for what, a boast, or what must account as one, even if he did not say outright “I killed the bastard”.’ Catchpoll looked at Rhys, wondering if he would object to the epithet, but the Welshman did not bat an eyelid.

  ‘So we are saying Corbin followed Hywel, but more cautiously, and waited as he began to deflower his cousin? I doubt that.’ Walkelin was sceptical.

  ‘Agreed, if that were so, Walkelin. But what if Corbin was steeling himself to do the deed as ordered?’ Bradecote had the sequence in his head. ‘He has never killed a man, and remember that most men never see more bloodshed than an accident with a farming implement. Killing like he was going to do would need building himself up to it, getting himself mad and angry enough to do it in hot blood. So he is not following, but somewhere in the village, and near enough to hear a cry from Milburga. He investigates, but a single cry is hard to place, and so unlike Rhydian, he arrives late, and in time to see the blow delivered only. Rhydian becomes distressed, Milburga is distressed. My guess is he gets both into Tovi’s home, and runs for his father, because he is his father and also the steward. By the time he tells the tale, who delivered the blow is not important, and he does not want whoever set him up to kill to be disappointed in him. He takes the “honour” since Rhydian clearly does not want it, and earns it by dealing with the aftermath.’

  ‘I would say that has a ring of truth to it, my lord. So often truth is dipped in chance.’ Catchpoll nodded, wisely. ‘So now we see the why, we just needs the who.’